


per ardua ad astra

by blue--phantom (twilightscribe)



Series: Of the Darkness, We Unite [2]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Fix-It of Sorts, Grey Wardens, Headcanon, M/M, Mages (Dragon Age), Magic, Magic-Users, Retelling, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Spirit Healer Hawke, Work In Progress, slowest of slow burns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2018-09-09 22:01:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 124,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8914516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightscribe/pseuds/blue--phantom
Summary: Per ardua ad astra, meaning "through struggle (or adversity) to the stars" or sometimes "a rough road leads to the stars."When Varric wrote his famous Tale of the Champion, he left a few things out. Or ignored them entirely. All for the betterment of the narrative, of course. But there's plenty that didn't make it to the page. Beginning with the Hawke family's desperate flight from Lothering at the outbreak of the Fifth Blight, this is the true story of the Champion of Kirkwall.





	1. that you were here

Bethany first realizes that her life is about to change when she leaves Lothering’s Chantry.

With Carver gone, Bethany finds herself more often than not in the Chantry. She comes to pray, to listen to the Chant, and simply to sit in quiet contemplation. Or, and this is more likely, she’ll venture out into the gardens of the Chantry, looking for Sister Leliana.

Having only ever known the countryside of Lothering, Leliana’s stories of courtly intrigue, brave knights, and faraway countries are all terribly exciting to Bethany. She listens, frequently with bated breath and what feels like millions of questions on the tip of her tongue, to each. Leliana is patient with her, sweet, and she smiles brightly whenever Bethany interrupts her to ask a question.

She tries her best to remember each story that Sister Leliana tells her perfectly, so that she can retell it later that night at the dinner table. Even if he scoffs about her stories, Carver always lets her finish and Gareth is always an attentive listener; he asks her questions when she stumbles, waits patiently whenever she has to pause to remember a detail or gather her thoughts. Their mother smiles at the stories, sometimes contributing one or two of her own – usually from the early days of her marriage to their father.

She misses Carver terribly. It’s strange, Bethany thinks, to be without her twin. When they were small, they had been inseparable, even when they grew older and Carver took to nailing her braid to her bed. It had always been the two of them; never seeing one without the other. She keeps hearing Carver’s voice. In the dead of the night, the sound of him sitting and sharpening his sword in front of the fire; him and Gareth talking in soft voices late into the night.

Their home feels empty with Carver gone. Bethany hadn’t thought that she would miss him so much, but she does.

Bethany keenly feels Carver’s absence today. It’s market day and usually Carver is the one whom she accompanies into the village. With him gone, Gareth had stepped in as her escort and the errand runner. He’s gone to haggle with someone over the price of… something. Bethany hadn’t been interested in it, so she didn’t care. She’d left Gareth in the marketplace to sort out whatever needs to be done and made her way to the Chantry. 

The first sign that something is wrong is that Sister Leliana is not in the Chantry. Or its gardens.

She asked the other initiates, but none can tell her where she is or where Bethany can find her. When she leaves the Chantry, she feels a little more lonely.

Leaving the grounds of the Chantry, she nearly walks into a small crowd of villagers gathered there.

Bethany arrives to hear the last of the whispered conversations.

“–heard that they demanded Arl Bryland and his men to march with them.”

“What are we to do now?”

Rolling onto the balls of her feet, Bethany peers over the assembled villagers. She catches sight of a gleam of armour and her stomach flip-flops. _Carver_?

But scanning the passing troops nets her nothing. If Carver were there, he wouldn’t be marching through their village, ignoring the calls from people as they ask what’s wrong, for news of Ostagar. He would be assuring them, answering their questions, and searching for his siblings in the crowd because _of course_ they would be there.

Carver isn’t here.

Bethany’s stomach drops out. The dread is slow to sink in, a chilliness that seeps into her blood and creeps through her body. She glances away from the column of soldiers, gaze flickering quickly through the small gathering area that constitutes Lothering’s marketplace. Her heart beats rapidly against her ribcage. _Where is Gareth?_

She spots her older brother across the way. His face looks bloodless, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. He looks around, spots her; Bethany sees his shoulders sag with relief, the way his lips press into a line, and that’s the confirmation: something is very wrong.

The last of the column passes through, nothing but a few wagons in their wake, and for the briefest stretch of time, there’s an unnatural stillness in the market. It’s as if the entire gathered crowd is holding its breath, waiting; Bethany’s certain that the tension is palpable. She can’t move, petrified to the spot.

Everything starts moving very quickly.

Someone lets out a horrifying, broken and high-pitched keen of a wail.

The crowd breaks apart, like a stepped on ant hill. People rush in every direction, running into each other. Children are crying. In the distance, Bethany hears someone calling out for their husband, their family. The noises all bleed together into a horrible maelstrom of sound.

Jostled by the crowd, Bethany finds herself near what was once the butcher’s stall. Sim, however, is nowhere to be seen, but she can hear the loud, cacophonous cries of his chickens along with the wailing of one of his children.

She looks around, trying to spot Gareth, but the crowd pulses back and forth. She can’t see him.

“Gareth!”

Bethany tries to push her way into the crowd, crying out her brother’s name, but she can’t force her way in. She sprawls to the ground, someone having pushed her . Her hands sink into the mud, stifling the sparks that shot out of her fingertips. Her magic always bubbles to the surface when panic sets in. Control, she remembers from her father’s lessons; breathe deep and control it.

 _But she can’t find Gareth_!

She struggles out of the mud, dragging herself. It keeps sucking her hands back in whenever she tries to push herself up. Her breath shakes as she draws in one breath, than another; each one is let out in a chattering exhale. Even in the late summer heat, Bethany feels cold. She can’t stop shaking.

“Are you alright?!”

Warm, callused hands close around her upper arms and Bethany lets out a sob. She throws herself against her brother’s chest, clings tightly to him, and hiccups. She has to keep telling herself to _keep breathing_ as she clings to him.

“Where’s Carver?” Bethany manages, at last. Her voice shakes, sounding small and childish as she asks. But she has to know, has to hear it from Gareth because that will make it _real_.

Gareth looks as afraid as her, only hiding it better. The corner of his mouth trembles as he looks her over, hands cupping her face and tangling in strands of her hair. Bethany doesn’t care; Gareth’s here and that means that everything will be fine. Even if Carver isn’t here, Gareth’s always protected them both.

“He’s not here,” Gareth replies. He glances back, at the crowd that’s rapidly dwindling as everyone rushes back to their homes, then looks back to her. His mouth is now set in a firm line, “We need to get home; mother will need to know.”

Bethany nods, stumbles to her feet, and leans into Gareth’s chest. She clings to her brother’s arm, the same way that he clings to her hand. The two of them run from Lothering, huddled together and stumbling, and begin the long journey back to their home.

With her breath burning in her lungs, Bethany can’t shake the feeling that _everything_ is about to change.

They don’t run the entire stretch of muddied dirt track, but it’s a close call. Bethany’s not certain why there’s urgency burning deep inside her gut; only that it drives her feet to move, as though she’s lit a fire in her boots. She grips Gareth’s hand, her palm slick with sweat, and swears that she can feel the hammering of his pulse against hers.

Her lungs are burning from exertion and something she’s too afraid to name by the time their house comes into sight. Not even the sight of its familiar door, or of smoke rising from the chimney, is enough to calm her.

No. Instead, it’s terrifying in its familiarity. Each timber, each line, is one that Bethany knows by memory. She’s traced the lines in the wood with her hand; there’s a burn against the back door that she caused once during practice. All of it is all that Bethany has ever known. It is _home_.

It offers her no comfort now.

Their mother looks up when they practically fall through the door. Gareth closes it behind them, sliding the little used bar into place to keep it locked. From his place at the fire, Waffles cocks his head up, tilting it towards them. His mouth falls open, tongue lolling out. He sobers quickly, climbs to his feet, and approaches them.

Bethany’s hand feels cold, clammy, and empty when he lets go of it. She blinks, sways on her feet. Waffles nudges her hand, making a soft huffing noise as he does.

“You’re back ear...” Their mother’s smile falters when she sees them, her voice petering out. Her eyes flicker from Bethany’s muddied hands, their red-faces, to Gareth’s; with each image, her confusion grows. “What’s happened?”

“Teryn Loghain’s men just marched through Lothering,” Gareth replies. His voice only has the barest tremor to it. “The rest of the army was nowhere to be seen.”

“No. _No!_ That can’t be! Carver, he – you’re lying!”

Bethany remembers how their mother crumpled to the floor when their father fell ill. She’d simply fallen to her knees, weeping into her hands. It had taken time, before she’d been able to stand again. After that, she hadn’t left their father’s side. When Gareth’s and her magic failed to cure him, their mother had sunk further and further into her sorrow, saying nothing to any of them. Even when he’d finally passed, in the dead of the night, she wouldn’t leave his side until he was finally taken to the pyre.

After that, she had always seemed slightly… distant. It was as though their father had taken a small part of her with him to the Maker’s side. And while the grief might have lessened with the passage of years, their mother never was the same again.

Gareth steps forward, lays a hand on their mother’s shoulder, “It doesn’t mean that Carver’s – we’ll have to wait. Whatever’s happened, we’ll get news soon. I’ll go back into Lothering tomorrow and see what everyone’s saying; but… we should be prepared.”

 _Prepared for the worst_. Bethany finishes her brother’s sentence in her head. It sends a chill straight down her spine. She bites her lip, clasps her muddy hands together, and sends a silent litany of prayers to the Maker.

Carver _cannot_ be dead. She prays and prays that he’ll return to them, whole and healthy. He’ll be beaming and tell them stories of the battle at Ostagar – of the bravery of the Grey Wardens against the darkspawn and of King Cailan and the army routing the darkspawn. Gareth will worry over Carver’s scars, their mother will fuss, and Bethany will tease him about all the new scars he’ll have gained.

Their brother will come home, with full honours and having served their king faithfully. Maybe his commanding officer will come, to tell them of how dutiful and courageous Carver was, to relay the commendations he will have obviously received. Their mother will worry, fuss, and swell with pride at hearing such. Meanwhile, she and Gareth will smile at him, proud, and try hard not to be of note.

Carver’s always been the silent backbone of their family. Bethany cannot imagine life without him; she will not allow herself to.

 

 

 

 

True to his word, Gareth ventures back into Lothering early the next morning. Waffles goes with him, loyally following his chosen master as any good mabari would.

Bethany remains with their mother, at home, doing the laundry and cleaning the house. She also ventures out to check the crops, which are due to be harvested in the coming few weeks. Everything is as it should be, but Bethany cannot shake the growing knot of anxiety in her chest.

“He should have been home before now,” Leandra says. She looks out the window for the fourth time, at the sky which is painted in bleeding hues of orange and red. “It’s getting late.”

Bethany smiles at her, squeezes her mother’s hand, “Gareth will be fine, mother. He can look after himself; something must have kept him is all.”

But she doesn’t quite believe the words herself.

She looks out the window, sees the dark silhouette of her brother, “There he is now.”

Leandra opens the door, stands outside to wait for him. Bethany lurks by the door, leaning against the frame, and watches as Gareth and Waffles approach.

The dying light of day throws Gareth’s face into sharp relief, emphasizes the growing dark circles under his eyes. He hadn’t slept well the night before, worrying, and then he’d gotten up at first light that morning; he’d taken his stave with him when he’d left, something he rarely did.

His mouth is set in a firm line, eyes shadowed, and he shakes his head. Bethany notices the tremor in his hands and her stomach drops out completely.

It’s confirmation of every dark thought.

“You look awful, sweetheart,” Leandra says. She takes Gareth’s arm, gently pulls him in. “Warm yourself by the fire, then tell us the news.”

Gareth rests his stave against the wall inside the door. Though he listens to their mother and drops into a chair near the fire, it doesn’t lessen the trembling in his hands. He flexes them, slowly, and stares at the ground.

Bethany folds herself onto the floor next to her brother, leaning against his chair, and Leandra pulls one away from their small table to sit near him. The three of them sit there, silently, for a long stretch of minutes before Gareth finally speaks.

“Ostagar was – it was a disaster,” Gareth says, at last. His voice is slow, hollow, and he drops his face into his hands. “One or two deserters were in Dane’s, telling tales to anyone who would listen about how Loghain quit the field. The king – the king is dead.”

Leandra’s jaw trembles, her hands ball into fists, “And Carver?”

Gareth shakes his head, “I asked, to see if anyone of them knew him. But they didn’t know; all they could tell me was that whoever survived would eventually come to Lothering. And that _we_ would be smart to flee as well.”

“No,” Leandra says. “Lothering is our home. We’re not going anywhere.”

“But mother,” Bethany interjects, “if the king is dead… then the darkspawn...”

“They won’t come _here_. This isn’t a Blight.”

Gareth exchanges a look with Bethany and shakes his head infinitesimally. There’s no reasoning with their mother when she gets like this; Carver inherited his stubborn streak from her.

“We should still be prepared,” Gareth replies. “There will be refugees, at the least. We’ll need to do what we can for them and we’ll wait for Carver. He’ll come home, mother. He will, I promise.”

The tense line of Leandra’s shoulders relaxes, slightly, and she smiles at Gareth, “Of course he will. Carver’s always been a good boy.”

There’s more that Gareth wants to say, Bethany can see it in his eyes, but he won’t say it in front of their mother. She’ll worry herself into a mess and there’s no arguing with her then. Instead, Gareth waits until it’s just the two of them, when they go out to collect firewood from the side of the house.

“It’s a Blight,” Gareth says, softly. “It was much, much more than the large raid we were told about. One of the deserters said that the Wardens had sent for reinforcements from Orlais.”

“What happened to them?”

Gareth’s shoulders sag. “According to one man, they were all killed on the field.”

Bethany’s blood chills. In every story she’s heard, the Wardens are the ones who rally nations to their banner, all to fight the darkspawn. It’s always a Grey Warden who slays an Archdemon.

“What will we do?” Bethany’s voice trembles. Not even she can stop an entire legion of darkspawn on her own.

Casting a glance back at the door, Gareth sighs, “Pack, but do it discreetly. We don’t want to worry mother – not yet.”

With numbness spreading through her, Bethany nods. She’s seen Gareth at the fire, late at night, checking over the long blade of his stave. Hers will need to be checked as well. Bethany makes a list in her mind of everything that they’ll need to pack, what few belongings they have, and what they can afford to leave behind.

The thought of abandoning all she’s ever known is daunting. But it’s better than the alternative.

“But we’ll wait for Carver, right?” Bethany whispers, as they slowly return to the door.

Gareth nods, “We won’t abandon him.”

 

 

 

 

“We need to leave!” Carver bursts through the door, its hinges shaking from the force of the blow.

Carver’s filthy, dirt smeared across his face, his hands stained with a dull brown that Bethany identifies, after a moment’s consideration, as blood. His greatsword, a parting present from their father before his passing, drips water to the floor; he’d cleaned it, then, before he’d come in. Likely in the water trough for the druffalo.

“What–”

“Mother,” Carver takes Leandra by the shoulders, stares into her eyes. “The darkspawn are coming. We need to leave. Now.”

“This isn’t a Blight!” Even as she says it, her voice shakes. Leandra no longer sounds as sure as she did days earlier, when Gareth initially brought home the news of Ostagar.

“It is.”

Carver looks so much older than Bethany remembers him looking. There’s a darkness in his eyes that hadn’t been there when he left and the set of his mouth and jaw is much harder. He looks to Gareth, “We need to move.”

“I know. Bethany?”

“Everything’s packed,” Bethany replies. “Well, everything that we can carry.”

“But we… Lothering is our home,” Leandra murmurs, dazedly. She isn’t looking at any of them, instead staring blankly at the wall. When she does look at them, her eyes are wide, her mouth shaking.

Bethany’s already pulling the packs out from where she’d hidden them under Carver’s cot. Hers and their mother’s are the heaviest, leaving Gareth and Carver with lighter packs – if there is to be any fighting, better the two of them. Bethany can support from the rear and Gareth will remain in the middle, keeping all of them alive.

“There won’t _be_ anything left if we don’t leave now,” Carver replies harshly. His hand grips their mother’s shoulder tightly, as though that alone will convince her of the seriousness of the situation.

Leandra sways on her feet, eyes unfocused, for the briefest of moments. Then her eyes harden and she nods. “Yes. Yes, we’ll go.”

Bethany distributes the packs, which earns her a smile and a pat on the back from their mother. She feels a little bubble of pride, knowing that she’s done good.

It’s late in the afternoon, turning to evening, when they leave.

Leandra looks back, eyes lingering for a long moment on their home. It’s the one that she built for their family with their father; his final monument to them. Bethany knows from her mother’s stories and Gareth’s faint recollections that it isn’t their first home – that was somewhere farther to the north, near Highever. But it’s the only home that she has ever known.

There are so many memories here. Bethany’s magic awakened here, their father taking her into the fields to teach her control, to master her magic. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. She can smell the wheat in the fields, the crackle of a fire, and the smell of smoke and leather that their father always carried with him.

_“Remember, Bethany: Magic must serve what is best in you, not that which is most base.”_

She remembers her father’s lessons, the rough scrape of his hands on hers. His hands had been callused, she recalls, from years of hard work and swordplay; he’d taught Carver everything he knew, and Gareth as well.

Deep inside her, Bethany feels the harsh strike of knowledge.

She will never see Lothering and her home again.

It terrifies her, to know that she will never return to these hills or feel the brush of the breeze. Lothering is all she’s ever known, her home since she was a small little girl. It’s all that she remembers. And she will never see it again. She won’t ever walk along its dirt roads with Gareth, laughing and needling him with questions. She won’t tease Carver about his crush on Peaches – hopeless, because she’s only got eyes for Gareth, who doesn’t even know she exists – and there will be no more stories from Sister Leliana.

The chill settles into her, one that doesn’t leave, even when they settle in for the night.

They’re not as far from Lothering as Carver would like; Bethany can read that in the line of his mouth and the way that he keeps snapping at Gareth about every little thing. But their mother is exhausted and they’re losing light quickly. It’s simply too dangerous to stumble their way forward in the dark.

Bethany starts a small fire, carefully feeding it with what bits of tinder that they can find. Their meal is simple. Under them, the ground is hard and they use their packs as pillows.

“I’ll take the first watch,” Gareth says. His eyes turn sharp. He stops Carver before he can object, “You’ve been running for days; you need rest and you’ll need your strength. Get some sleep. I’ll wake you in a few hours.”

Carver scowls. “Always so sacrificing, aren’t you, brother?”

Bethany flicks a pebble at him. “He’ll be the one who has to carry you when you collapse from exhaustion because you’re too thick-headed and stubborn to listen.”

Rubbing his forehead where the rock hit, Carver turns his scowl on her. “You always take his side.”

“Someone has to be the voice of reason,” Bethany replies. She adds softly, “He’s right, you know. You look like you’re about to collapse.”

That Carver doesn’t argue further with her speaks to the truth of the matter. Instead, he grumbles as he plumps up his pack and settles in against the large boulder that Gareth’s perched himself on top of. In only seconds, Carver’s fast asleep, his chest slowly rising and falling, snoring softly. His snores are matched by Waffles’, who has elected to curl up next to Carver – close enough to watch over the both of them.

Bethany smiles at the sight before she too settles down to sleep, next to their already sleeping mother.

She glances up at Gareth. She can only see him in profile, illuminated by the faint light of the veilfire he’s conjured for light. His eyes are shadowed, the lines of his face in sharp relief, and his skin lit up in flickering shades of green; he looks so much older, Bethany thinks, than his twenty-one years and it hurts her to realize that.

Bethany watches him till she falls asleep, lulled by the veilfire pulsing in time with her brother’s breathing.

 

 

 

 

It’s a hard pace that Carver pushes. 

Bethany learns this in the dim light of early morning. The sun has barely crested above the horizon, fog clinging stubbornly to the land and swirling about her as she sits up. Her body aches from sleeping on the ground and she’s still exhausted. Behind her, she can hear the soft breathing of her mother, who slumbers on.

It was Gareth who woke her, a hand on her shoulder and a gentle shake. Though she slept less than him, he’s awake and moving about their small camp with purpose. She hears him and Carver speaking in soft voices, their heads close and angled towards each other. Gareth nods at something that Carver says, the corner of his lips tugging up a little.

The fire that Bethany conjured the night before has long since gone out. Someone, most likely Carver, has kicked dirt and leaves over it to hide it. There will be no warmth this morning, just the cold light of Gareth’s veilfire until the sun finishes rising.

“Mother?” Bethany lays a hand on her mother’s shoulder, squeezing it gently. “Mother, it’s time to wake up; we need to keep moving.”

Her expectation was that her mom would be slow to rouse, maybe sucked into that quagmire of desolation that Bethany saw in her eyes the night before over their cold supper. She can only guess at how their mother feels, leaving behind their home of the last sixteen years – all that Bethany and Carver have ever known – and the home that she built with their father after years of running.

But Leandra sits up, a little bleary-eyed but otherwise perfectly alert. She smooths back her hair and smiles at Bethany. “We’ll have time to eat first, though. Otherwise we won’t last long.”

Breakfast consists of very little but some cured meat and bread that Bethany tucked into their mother’s pack. Likely, Bethany thinks, the bread will be the first of their supplies to go – there’s little of it and it’s what will spoil first.

They’ve travelled far enough that their home is no longer visible in the distance. Bethany isn’t sure of where they’re going – they’re headed east, so she’s assuming that their destination is South Reach on the edge of the Brecilian Forest. But she isn’t sure, and the looks on Carver and Gareth’s faces aren’t promising, so she chooses to say nothing.

For the most part, they travel in silence. Even when they pause in the evening to rest for the night and have their meal, there’s little conversation. Each of them is lost in their own thoughts, though Bethany’s caught Carver and Gareth having quiet arguments more and more frequently. Again that night, they stand watch: though Carver takes the first shift.

The next morning dawns, cold and grey, but the same as the morning before. They eat a quick breakfast, before beginning their long trek again.

It’s late in the morning, possibly early afternoon, when Bethany briefly looks behind them as they crest a low hill. Lothering’s no longer visible, hidden as it is behind the rolling hills, but Bethany spots the cloud of thick, black smoke rising from where she remembers the village.

She gasps, “Lothering…”

The sight of Lothering burning works as a catalyst, driving them to move faster. Carver presses them hard, at a pace that neither Leandra nor Bethany are used to. Even Gareth struggles with it, though he refuses to complain; instead, he helps their mother whenever she stumbles. There are worry lines about Carver’s face that she doesn’t remember having been there before as he pushes them to keep moving, to run when they can.

All of them know: Lothering has burned. The darkspawn will turn to the countryside now.

The hoard doesn’t rest. It keeps going and going; there is no stopping it. Their head start now seems even more precious than it was before.

There is no time for rest now.

 

 

 

 

Three days out from Lothering, their luck runs out.

Bethany hardly recognizes the countryside now. The green has all been bled out of it, replaced by the occasional burnt out husk of what once was someone’s home and a sparse, grey landscape. Even though she hardly ventured out of the borders of their home, nothing looks as it should: there is no green, no trees.

And there are darkspawn.

She has never used her magic to kill before. It would have frightened her, before, at how easily it comes to her.

Fire comes easiest to her. Ice is a little more challenging, but Bethany thrives when it comes to the elements. She launches an icicle at one, impales it straight through, and down it goes.

There are two more to take its place.

Fire sparks at her fingertips. The wall of flames she conjures to block off the advance of the hoard sparks red-blue. With another flick of her staff, she freezes another in place.

Carver’s blade flashes, catches the light, as he decapitates the darkspawn. The head flies a good three or four paces from its body. With the release of the spell, it drops to the ground. It lands with a sick sounding plop.

Sucking in a breath, Bethany tries to steady the roaring of her blood in her ears. Her heart thuds rapidly in her chest and there is an excitement tingling through her limbs that she’s never felt before. The thrill of battle, Bethany thinks, and on the heels of that realization comes coursing in a fear: the easy addiction to the rush of it, the thrill of killing.

It frightens her to know how easy killing can be. All it took was the most minute flick of her staff, a silent gesture with her hand, and the elements rushed to her call.

She turns in time to see Gareth wrenching the long blade of his stave from the chest of one of the darkspawn. His forehead is smudged with dirt and sweat, but the skin of his face is bloodless; his birthmark stands out, stark red against his skin. His eyes are wide, flickering from Bethany, to Carver, to their mother who unfurls herself from her hiding place.

“I think that’s all of them,” Carver says, sounding only slightly winded.

Glancing back to the wall of fire she conjured, Bethany adds, “For the moment.”

“We need to keep moving.” Gareth flicks his stave, the dark, greasy blood of the darkspawn he just killed flies off in a gruesome little arc. “The darkspawn could be on us at any moment.”

There’s a sharp flash of light and Bethany feels energy flood through her veins, the little aches and pains of fighting – something that she isn’t used to – fade away, replaced by a warm buzz of energy.

Gareth’s fingers are still glowing a faint white at his side. The warm amber of his eyes, too, has an almost unnatural glow to it – the result of his magic. Bethany has long been fascinated by her brother’s magic, the ease by which he wields it and how it makes her feel when he casts. It’s one that’s tinged with a small amount of envy that she’s never been able to quite shake; she has some small talent for healing, but to Gareth it’s an innate one.

In all of their lessons with their father, magic came easily to Gareth and he wielded it with the same ease as he did his stave. For Bethany, it was harder; she begrudged her magic, hated that it took her away from Carver, marked her as being different. But when it came to the destructive power of fire and ice, it flowed naturally from her fingers – like breathing. It wasn’t fair.

But now is not the time to linger on those feelings. She’s always been grateful for Gareth’s abilities – his skill as a healer has gotten them through so many hard and trying times, soothed her and Carver on many nights – and it has proven to be infinitely useful now.

As much as Bethany would like to stop, catch her breath, and steady the shaking of her fingers, she knows that they can’t. The fire she conjured is already beginning to flicker and die. Bethany wonders if lyrium would have helped her casting – given it that boost to last for much longer – but it doesn’t matter. They are running out of time.

Instead, they regroup: Leandra in the centre, Bethany bringing up the rear, with Gareth and Carver taking the lead. Then, they press on. Their mother stumbles as they hurriedly make their way up the hill through its narrow pass, but Bethany catches her and steadies her as best she can, while keeping an eye on the path behind them.

It looks, so far, like they may have escaped the hoard. For the moment.

Shielding her eyes with her hand as they crest the hill, Bethany asks a question that’s been burning at the back of her throat for two days now. “Where are we going?”

Carver looks back at her, frown clearly telling her that this is the stupidest question that she has ever asked before, “Away from the darkspawn, _obviously_.”

“And then where? We can’t just wander aimlessly!” Bethany bites back the rest of her words. She’s exhausted, despite how her body thrums with Gareth’s magic at present. It lingers and will, for as long as there is that glow in her brother’s eyes, but she knows too well the strain that it puts on him. He cannot keep it up forever.

“Wherever we go, what’s important is that we don’t separate,” Gareth says softly. The circles under his eyes are darker now, like two deep purple bruises. “We need to stay together. For now, Carver’s right: we need to get away from the darkspawn.”

“Oh, _now_ you agree with me,” Carver spits. “Last night, you were saying that I–”

“We can go to Kirkwall,” Leandra says. It’s the first thing that she’s said to them in two days – beyond begging for the Maker to watch over them all.

Gareth blinks, eyes wide, “ _Kirkwall_? Are you sure that’s wise?”

“There’s a _lot_ of templars in Kirkwall, mother.” Templars they’ve been living in fear of for their entire lives; they’re why their parents couldn’t settle down for years, why they had to flee their first home in Highever.

“I know that,” Leandra sighs. She crosses her arms, looks at her feet for a moment, then looks to each of her children, “But we still have family there and an estate. It’s far from the darkspawn and our family’s status would offer protection and security.”

Bethany highly doubts that. Status doesn’t protect a mage. People fear magic and rightly so. The templars won’t care if she’s the daughter of the king; if she is was a mage and they know, she will be sent to the Circle immediately. Or executed as an apostate.

She looks to Gareth, hoping that he’ll talk their mother out of this absurd idea of hers. But when she looks to him, she sees the exhaustion in his face, the tremble in his hands, and knows that they cannot keep running forever. Her brother would sooner run himself ragged than let any harm come to any of them – even if it meant overextending himself. Already his eyes, she realizes, are taking on that glassy fever sheen.

And their mother is stubborn, once she sets her mind on something. Bethany sighs, weighing the decision.

Kirkwall is very far and across the sea. But it would take them far away from the coming Blight and their mother is right: they do have family there. Family and an estate. The estate promises them status and so long as she and Gareth keep to themselves as they always have, then their neighbours will have no reason to believe that two apostates have just arrived.

Even if they’ll be trapped in a city full of templars, they’ll find a way to make it work. Bethany bites her lip, worries it with her teeth, as she thinks about what it could mean if they were found out. She could take all of the blame of it herself; Gareth’s magic is far less showy than hers. If someone _did_ find out, she would simply turn herself in and claim to be the family’s only apostate. No need for anyone to look at them closer.

“Then we need to get to Gwaren and take ship,” Bethany says, at last. She _hates_ admitting that it’s their only option.

“If we survive that long,” Carver snorts. “I’ll just be happy to get out of here.”

“Then we need to keep moving. No one’s hurt?”

Gareth would know if they were, but it makes Bethany smile to hear him ask.

They continue on, following the dirt path through the hills that used to be a road. Alongside them are the twisted, black remnants of what once were trees. The air is thick with ash, so much so that Bethany is amazed that none of them have choked on it. Above them, the sun beats down and sweat beads and trails down the back of her neck.

She’s a little surprised that they have seen no one yet. Certainly, Bethany had thought that more people would have fled Lothering. Wouldn’t they meet a number of them on their way? But Bethany’s lost all sense of direction – it’s entirely possible that they’re taking a different route. The hills about Lothering are scattered with dirt tracks that separate and link its network of farms.

There were the hunting tracks, too, Bethany recalls dimly from overheard conversations. She only knew of them, but she trusts that Carver and Gareth know where they’re going. They will reach Gwaren soon, then be on their way to Kirkwall and leave the coming Blight behind them.

Bethany focuses on that, to ignore the burn of exertion in her legs and the way that the ash claws at her throat as she sucks in each breath. Soon, she hopes, they’ll be able to rest, if only for a little while. Just long enough to catch her breath.

It’s late into the afternoon when Bethany hears the clang of steel. The now familiar sounds of combat.

She doesn’t see the source of it until they come round, the hill having blocked her view of the path ahead.

There are people here. Two of them. Fighting the darkspawn.

Bethany can only catch sight of red hair, hear a woman shout, “You will not have him!”

She blinks, follows after her brothers as they charge forward. But she’s quick enough to catch sight of a woman _tackle_ one of the attacking darkspawn to the ground, whereupon, the woman begins to punch it repeatedly, before she takes up its own weapon and decapitates it.

Bethany’s breath catches in her throat at the sight of familiar red cloth, spattered with blood now but still recognizable.

She turns her gaze from it, focusing on the darkspawn. Breathe in, let out a blast of fire. Breathe out, concentrate, and launch a volley of razor-sharp ice blades at two more. Bethany watches them go down, black blood gurgling from their wounds. They do not rise.

Carver easily slices a swath through them, greatsword flashing in the light. Two of them are caught in the swing of his blade, their torsos severed and they crumble to the ground in halves. Towards them, Bethany carefully launches a series of fire blasts. Just in case.

A little ways to the side and ahead of her, Gareth parries the blade of one. He twirls his stave around, following it in an elegant swirl of his own, and runs the darkspawn clean through. Jerking his stave out of its target, it trails a ribbon of black behind it, as Gareth brings his stave in a wide, sweeping strike to another darkspawn’s neck. Then, he lands a hard kick to its chest, sending the darkspawn flying backwards. It tumbles over the edge, falling down the sheer drop-off.

She brings her focus back to the fight, flames swirling about her as she does. Three more, four more fall to Bethany’s spells before it ends.

Breathing hard, Bethany straightens and wipes her brow. There’s still adrenalin singing sweetly through her body; the siren call of battle and she rolls onto the balls of her feet. She feels bouncy, high-strung, as though she could conquer everything in this moment. The freedom of letting her magic loose is an intoxicating one.

It’s a pair of people that they’ve saved from the darkspawn: a man and a woman. The man’s stumbled to his feet and Bethany sees the slosh of blood from under his armour, despite the red-haired woman putting pressure on it.

Cautiously, Gareth approaches them, with Carver and Bethany close behind them. Their mother lingers in the back, hands clasped tightly together and looking between the two newcomers with wide, trembling eyes.

The man wears the armour of a templar.

“Stop squirming, Wesley,” the woman says. “You’ll make it worse.”

“If he’s hurt, I can–” Gareth begins to say, but he’s cut off.

“Apostate! Keep your distance!” He points his shaking blade at Bethany.

Bethany snorts, because only a templar would spit in the face of a mage who offers him help, “Well, the Maker has a sense of humour. Darkspawn, and now a templar. I thought they had all abandoned Lothering.”

Gareth shifts, putting himself firmly between the templar and Bethany. Carver steps up beside him, greatsword still in hand, casting the man a dark look.

“The spawn are clear in their intent,” the templar, Wesley the woman called him, says. His voice is halting, catching on the words, and it’s clear that he remains on his feet through sheer willpower alone. The hand that doesn’t hold his sword is clamping a blood-soaked cloak to the wound in his side. “But a mage is always unknown. The Order dictates–”

“Wesley,” the woman says, softly. She lays a hand on his shoulder, the other on his shaking sword arm.

“The Order dictates…” Wesley repeats, again. There’s something wrong with his eyes, Bethany thinks, as she looks at them; they’re unfocused, with a faint white filmy quality to them.

“Wesley, they saved us.” The woman’s voice is firmer this time, but still soft. It only carries because of how close all of them stand. “The Maker understands.”

Wesley’s sword wavers, but he is slow to lower it. His mouth is turned down in a severe frown when he finally acquiesces, “... of course.”

If she’s being honest, Bethany is amazed that he doesn’t just drop his sword then. She may not be an expert, but it’s clear to her that the grip he has on his sword is a boneless one. The tip of it digs into the dirt, the hilt of it resting in his hand.

The woman lets out a breath, but she offers them a small, though wary and exhausted smile, “I am Aveline Vallen. This is my husband, Ser Wesley. We can hate each other when we’re safe from the horde.”

“We’re the Hawke family – I’m Gareth, my siblings Bethany and Carver, and our mother, Leandra,” Gareth says, lowering his staff slowly. Though he inclines his head at the both of them, his eyes remain fixed on the wound at Wesley’s side. Trust her brother’s bleeding heart to worry about a templar who was just about to arrest or kill them, “How bad is that wound?”

Wesley blinks, sways on his feet and he drops his blade. He glances down at his wound, as though stunned by its presence, “I think my sword arm’s a loss, even with healing.”

“Then you will have mine. As always,” Aveline says, smiling at her husband. She’s taken his shield, Bethany realizes, and there’s a sword sheathed at her waist.

There’s a ghost of a smile on Gareth’s lips. He steps forward and Bethany sees the little swirls of magic about his fingers as he raises it, “Let me stop the bleeding, at least.”

He presses his hand above Wesley’s and the glow increases, bright blue-white and soft. It flares and then lingers for a few moments, even after Gareth pulls his hand away. His palm is stained with blood, but he wipes it on his pants.

Carefully, Aveline pulls away the wad of cloak from Wesley’s side. No blood gushes forth, though the cloth and his armour remain stained with it. She looks at the wound, then to Gareth. Her smile this time, however, is warmer. “Thank you.”

Wesley stares. “You’re–”

Gareth shrugs a little half-shrug, face softening into a tiny, exhausted smile, “An apostate? Yes. A spirit healer? Also yes. This is a strange time for you to be hunting apostates. Last I heard, the majority of the templars had left with the priests.”

Laying her hand on Gareth’s arm, Bethany squeezes it and grins, “The nice templar has been convinced to postpone his hunt for illegal mages. So let’s not dwell upon it, shall we?”

“Wise girl,” Aveline murmurs.

Wesley gapes, reminding Bethany very much of the fish that could occasionally be found in the Lothering marketplace. He closes his mouth with a click of his teeth, eyes darting to the side as though weighing his options about how much he should be telling them. Perhaps his better nature wins out in the end, because he responds with what Bethany can only assume is honesty.

“I was traveling to Denerim on business for the Order, but I had to turn south when I heard of Ostagar,” Wesley lays his blooded hand on top of his wife’s, gives it a squeeze. He also gives her a small smile and it shocks Bethany to see; he looks so… human in that moment.

“We found each other as I fled north,” Aveline replies. Her mouth is tight, twitches, as she admits, “I was at Ostagar. For now, however, we move with you. You should know: North is cut off. We barely managed to escape the main body of the horde.”

Carver swears, quite colourfully Bethany thinks, and ignores the scandalized look that their mother shoots him. He looks at Gareth, scowling, “Then we’re trapped! There’s only the Wilds to the south and that’s no way to go!”

Jaw tightening, Gareth shoots Carver a look, “We don’t have a choice. The darkspawn have us fenced in; we go south.”

“But–”

“Carver, listen to your brother,” Leandra says. She’s shaking, avoiding looking at the ground that’s now dotted with darkspawn corpses and sticky with their blood.

Muttering something under his breath, Carver storms ahead of them, angrily wiping his blade to clean it of darkspawn blood. Aveline gives him a worried look, but says nothing.

There’s nothing to it, now, but to keep moving. Even _if_ Bethany’s none too pleased by their newest additions. She can’t do anything about it, however, and instead decides that she will give them as much space as she possibly can. Rather than stay with their mother, she jogs ahead, chasing after her twin.

It’s going to be a very long journey. Bethany can only pray that they survive it.

 

 

 

 

On the second day since meeting the templar Wesley and his wife, Aveline, Bethany begins to believe that their ordeal is nearing its end.

They’ve encountered few darkspawn since then and they’ve been easily dealt with. It’s easier, having another warrior around, and Aveline has proven her mettle time and again. Though she admits that the shield is not her preferred weapon, she wields it with ease and strength. Bethany was particularly impressed when Aveline smashed it into the face of one hurlock and the blow split its head in two.

It had been a messy kill, yes, but it had certainly been impressive.

Wesley, for his part, keeps his distance from her and Gareth. Though, she notices, that he keeps a wary eye on Gareth, as though he’ll suddenly explode into an abomination at any moment. While he avoids her just as much, he doesn’t give her quite the berth that he does her brother.

And it irks Bethany, creates an itch of irritation under her skin that she cannot shake. Gareth’s done nothing but help Wesley, healed him when he didn’t have to and been nothing but kind to him – despite Wesley being a templar and he an apostate. Her brother is the least dangerous mage that Bethany knows; true, he’s lethal in a fight, but not with magic. No, in that respect, _Bethany_ is the one to fear.

It confuses her, leaves her short-tempered and she glares at Wesley as they continue their desperate flight. A small, nasty little part of her takes some pleasure in seeing him stumble, but Bethany shoves that aside; it’s unimportant, because it’s always covered in an avalanche of guilt. She should not feel this way.

Late in the morning of that second day, however, something happens.

Bethany knows that the darkspawn exist because many, many ages ago, the magisters entered the Golden City, tainting it black and bringing the blight to the lands. By that logic, the darkspawn should have their own magic.

She had given little thought to darkspawn mages, though certainly they must exist.

They are confronted with one that morning.

Neither herself nor Gareth have ever fought another mage. Their father never included that scenario in their training. But Wesley instructs Aveline and Carver on how best to approach the situation, though he himself cannot fight, while Bethany stays in the rear providing cover. She rains down fire and ice upon their enemies, keeping them at bay and interrupting the emissary's casting.

“You must keep it from casting,” Wesley had said. “Then take it out as quickly as possible.”

Wesley’s face has taken on a waxy, grey pallor that makes Bethany’s stomach tighten and quiver. The veins on his neck have begun to stand out, straining purple-black against his skin. While no one has said anything, Bethany has seen the tense lines about Gareth’s eyes and mouth, the soft glow about his fingers, and how Wesley looks at him with resignation in his eyes.

They know what’s to come.

Bethany doesn’t think of it. She focuses on the battle ahead of them; she needs to stay alive. If her concentration slips, even a little, then all of them might die. Her job is to keep the darkspawn at bay, far enough from Leandra and Wesley and from her.

The brunt of the fighting falls to Carver and Aveline, with Gareth providing support. Bethany brings up the rear of their fighting party, as always. Leandra is behind Bethany, supporting a gradually weakening Wesley whose balance and strength is fading fast. It’s unlikely, Bethany thinks, that he’ll survive till Gwaren.

She doesn’t voice this thought, afraid of how Aveline might react.

Instead, the six of them hurry up the slight incline towards a plateau. They leave behind them the charred corpses of darkspawn. That’s been the only sight for days. Darkspawn and more darkspawn. None of them have slept properly in days. It’s been almost nothing but constant movement, with only brief pauses of a few hours for some much needed rest.

That none of them have collapsed of exhaustion yet is a miracle. But that will only take them so far and Bethany feels that their luck is slowly running out. The pace they’ve set can’t be maintained forever, not even with Gareth there to shore them up when needed.

How he’s not run himself into the ground yet, Bethany doesn’t know. She doesn’t want to think about it.

They stumble their way onto the plateau, breathing heavily. Bethany’s side burns. Breathing causes pain to flare up sharply behind her ribs. Her throat feels as though it’s been scraped raw, though she had taken a huge drink of that horribly murky water pulled from the banks of the small stream that ran through the back of their land.

She’d kill for even a mouthful of the awful swill that Barlin passed off in Dane’s as ale.

“We must reach the Wilds,” Aveline says, her blade dripping blood. “And quickly, before the darkspawn have a chance to regroup.”

“Will they?” Bethany asks, clutching her stave tightly. Her hands are trembling.

“Likely, the darkspawn that we’ve encountered have either been scouting parties or stragglers – those who have broken away from the main body of the horde,” Aveline replies. “There’s a chance that their absence might cause some stir and more will come to investigate.”

Carver, staring out towards the horizon where the sun is beginning to set, says, “That’s the last thing we need. We can’t take on the entire horde ourselves.”

“Then we’ll just have to keep moving,” Gareth says. His own stave drips blood from its blade. The dark circles under his eyes are darker than before and Bethany wonders if they’ll ever fade. Even the glow of his eyes has dimmed, somewhat. “We can’t stay here and wait for them to come for us.”

Carver’s got anger in the set of his jaw as he whirls around. “Oh sh–”

The ground trembles, shakes violently beneath their feet. Fear strikes Bethany. The ground is about to split open, spilling hundreds if not thousands of darkspawn into the world. She thinks they are all about to die.

But the ground does not split open. The horde does not spill out in a wave of death.

What charges onto their plateau is huge. It towers over all of them – even Carver. Crowning its head are a pair of huge, twisting horns, each of which is thicker than Bethany’s arm. It charges straight through, nearly sending Carver flying; he only avoids it with a quick leap backwards.

Bethany has only heard whispers of such a darkspawn. An ogre, they call them.

It turns, quickly. Dark, soulless eyes catch sight of Leandra, who has stumbled and is trying to climb back to her feet.

Swallowing down the lump of fear that’s jumped into her throat and lodged itself there, Bethany shifts to stand in front of her mother. She plants her feet, sucking in a deep breath.

It will _not_ take her mother from her.

“Maker, give me strength,” Bethany murmurs. She forces all the energy she has, all that’s left, into her hands, pushes it out through her fingers. Fire burns, bright, orange, and red, exploding across the mottled skin of the ogre.

It roars. Bethany’s ears start ringing.

She doesn’t get time to think about that, about the pain.

The ogre lunges, grabs her.

Bethany is jerked off her feet. Her head snaps back. All the air rushes out of her lungs. Her head is swimming, she’s light-headed.

Those are the last sensations Bethany feels. 

Her world explodes in pain. Everything burns. There is blood in her lungs. She cannot breathe. She tries, but copper and salt pour into her lungs. Blood.

She does not feel it when she hits the ground. Tossed aside like a small child does a doll.

Bethany’s eyes stare blankly up to the sky.


	2. and the land is dark

He remembers at Ostagar when he turned to the sky and saw the beacon lit and no one on the horizon. He had felt hope rising up within him. His heart had swelled. This was _it_. They were going to turn the tide of the battle: _they would win_. For that brief moment, time seemed to have stopped.

Only… that hope fled. His stomach had dropped out, through his feet, and it had been his will alone that had kept him on his feet. That or the shock. Even now, Carver isn’t sure which it was.

That feeling of time slowing to a stop, to nothing moving, the shock setting in… he never wanted to experience it again.

Watching Bethany fly through the air, her body hitting the ground with a horrible wet sounding thud, time slows. It feels like it lasts minutes.

There is a rushing in his ears. A roaring over which nothing penetrates.

His mother screaming comes to him, as though carried over a long distance.

“Bethany!”

Everything jerks back into motion. As though the strings holding everything still have snapped. The ground under his feet feels unsteady.

Carver does not think. He can’t. Not over the roaring rush of blood in his ears. The grief that screams through his veins.

He charges the ogre, bringing his blade up. Ducking under the swing of its massive arms, turns his blade to slash through its leg. It lets out a deafening cry, but Carver barely registers it.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Aveline take a swipe from its clawed hand with her shield. Her feet dig into the parched dirt, leaving deep gouges, but she holds her ground. Aveline twists her entire body, forcing the ogre’s arm to twist with her. The ogre lets out another cry, but it’s distracted now.

He wrenches his blade from its leg, brings it down again. And again. Blood flies past his face, splattering the ground around him, soaking into his clothes. But Carver is beyond caring now. Damn the Blight. Damn the ogre, _damn his sister for being too brave_.

 _It should have been him_ , a voice whispers in his ear. It is dark and insidious, weaving through the shock and the blossoming pain within him. That voice comes to him from the emptiness that is opening up inside of him, where Bethany fits. It sounds like his own voice – cold and distant, but whispering to him nonetheless.

Carver comes back to himself, still feeling strangely detached from the fight. _This cannot be real; it cannot be happening_. He stumbles back, just in time to spot Gareth.

His brother’s taken a running leap, the blade of his stave pointed forward and down. His aim is perfect, and he plunges the blade straight into the heart of the ogre. It sinks in, deep, all the way to the root of the blade and the momentum of Gareth’s leap carries him – and the ogre – forward until both hit the ground.

The ogre lets out an ear-splitting howl, clawing the air uselessly. Gareth dodges its massive hands, his face twisted into an expression that renders him near recognizable. His eyes are blazing white behind and around the amber, starkly bright in contrast to the deep purple-black circles about his eyes. His mouth is twisted into a snarl, his voice a ragged howl.

It is not his brother that kills the ogre, Carver thinks, because he doesn’t recognize him.

With a twist of his stave, Gareth makes a noise that Carver hardly recognizes as being human. It sounds like a growl, a howl, all bundled up with grief. For a moment, Carver believes that he’s going to need to pull Gareth off, that his brother will simply collapse to the ground from grief and exhaustion.

He needn’t have bothered.

No, of course _Gareth_ doesn’t need help. He stumbles from atop the ogre’s chest, pulls the stave from the ogre’s chest – and the sound it makes is horrible, a wet sucking noise that will haunt Carver for the rest of his days. He pays no mind to Aveline nor the ogre that he’s just slain; not even when Aveline hacks off the ogre’s head.

It’s a small reassurance that he is not the only one who remembers the Wardens’ advice.

But that offers little comfort at the sight of his brother. Or to his _sister_ who now lies… dead. Bethany is dead.

Carver lurches forward, grabbing his brother’s shoulders. He sees the bright light glowing behind his brother’s eyes, the magic coalescing about his fingers in that same brilliant white. He knows exactly what it means, though he’s seen it only once before.

“ _No_ ,” Carver says. “It’s too late. You can’t save her.”

 _You should have_ , that voice hisses. _You should have saved her; I know you could have. It should have been **you**._

But Carver says nothing. He bites back the words and swallows the bile. That tiny, rational part of him knows that Gareth could have done nothing; Bethany would have acted no matter what. But it’s easily drowned out by the violence of his grief, of his rage, that is coursing through him.

Gareth slumps against him and Carver stumbles under the sudden weight of his brother. Though Carver’s younger, he’s bigger than his elder brother. But Carver’s carried his brother’s weight before and it is nothing he can’t manage. All he needs to do is steady his brother, just enough for Gareth to pull himself together again.

Maker, but he never wants to see him come apart again.

When Gareth pulls away, Carver feels cold. He can’t see his brother’s eyes, shadowed as they are by his hair and the fading light of the setting sun. But he’s certain that if he _could_ see, that Gareth’s eyes would be wet and shining with tears. Of course Gareth won’t cry, however, because that would be _weakness_ and damn his brother for always having to be strong.

Carver feels remarkably detached from his body as he and Gareth slowly walk towards Bethany. Their mother. His fingers are numb, the feeling spreading upwards, and Carver’s heart beats slow and sluggish against his chest. There’s something hot and hard and sharp lodged in his throat, keeping him from speaking.

Even if he had the words, he wouldn’t be able to say them. What’s he supposed to say, anyway? They can’t stay. They can’t take Bethany with them.

Kneeling beside Bethany, Carver looks at his sister. It strikes him how young she is – how young all of them are. Blood has welled up past her lips, streaking down from the corners of it in streaks of bright red. Her eyes stare up, unfocused, dull, and blank, at the sky above them. She won’t look at him and smile again, reprimand him for his recklessness, or tease him over his hopeless crushes.

She’s gone.

Their mother clings desperately to Bethany’s shoulders, so tightly that her knuckles are bone-white. She keeps shaking Bethany, as though she’s only asleep and will wake up at any moment.

“Bethany!” she sobs. “Wake up! The battle’s over! We’re f-fine… it’s going to be alright… Bethany, please…”

Neither Gareth nor Carver speaks. Instead, it’s Aveline who lays a gentle hand on Leandra’s shoulder, squeezes it as she kneels beside her, and says in the softest voice, “I’m sorry, mistress. Your daughter is gone.”

“No!” Leandra snaps, shrugging roughly away from Aveline’s hand. She turns on her spitting her words out, “These _things_ will not take Bethany!”

Beside him, Gareth moves jerkily, as though someone is pulling strings to make him do so. His hand trembles as he closes Bethany’s eyes, gently, and then wipes away the worst of the blood from her mouth. It doesn’t quite work; there are streaks of wine red now dyed onto the skin.

With her eyes closed, Bethany almost looks as though she could be sleeping. But there’s no blush of life to her cheeks, just a bloodless pallor that’s tinged her skin grey. Her chest doesn’t rise and fall and Carver knows that if any of them were to press their hand to her chest, there would be no thump of life there.

 _Bethany is dead_.

“She risked her life for us,” Gareth says, quietly. It doesn’t sound like him. It sounds distant and strained, as though he’s forcing the words out from a throat that’s gone stiff. “We can’t leave her like this.”

“Shut up!” Leandra snaps. “This is _your_ fault! I don’t want a hero! _I want my daughter_! How could you let her charge at that monster like that?!”

Stroking Bethany’s hair, Leandra sobs, her shoulders shaking, and she hunches over Bethany, cooing softly into her hair, “Oh, my poor little girl… my sweetheart…”

It isn’t fair. Carver knows this. It’s been his lot since he was born – the only non-mage in a family of them. Life isn’t fair. Ever.

He finds his own voice, swallows back the lump which feels like shattered glass as it goes down, “And if we stand here weeping, the darkspawn will take the rest of us too.”

Better him than Gareth, whose head has tipped forward. His entire face is cloaked in shadow and he looks away from Bethany, from their mother. The line of his jaw is tense, pained. He won’t look at any of them.

 _This is his fault_. But it isn’t. Carver still feels like it is. Or, at least, a part of him does.

Quietly, Gareth shoulders the burden of it. He leans forward, hand cupping the side of Bethany’s face, and presses his lips to her forehead. It’s all he can do – all any of them can do – and murmurs something softly to her that Carver can’t make out. Then, he straightens his shoulders, his back, and pulls away to stand once more. His face is frozen in a blank expression, eyes hooded and glassy. There’s a flush of pink high in his cheeks, but the glow hasn’t receded.

Carver feels warmth flush through his body, as though he’s seated himself in front of a fire and Bethany’s dropped a blanket about his shoulders to ward off the chill of a Lothering evening. All of the little aches and pains fade, leaving him feeling flush with energy; as though he’s just woken up from a deeply restful sleep. He feels as though he could run the entire distance to Gwaren without need of rest.

“We can’t leave her for the darkspawn,” Gareth says. The words seem to stick to his tongue, a little, and he’s prying them off. He clenches his stave tightly, the blade digging into the dusty earth near his feet; his hands tremble and his knuckles have turned white.

He says nothing else. Nothing about how much their mother has hurt him. He bears it and Carver can see it in the tense line of his shoulders. It’s simply one more burden that Gareth will bear, with absolutely no complaints like the damn martyr that he is.

“Allow me to commend your daughter’s soul to the Maker, mistress,” Wesley says, nearly making Carver leap. He’d forgotten that the man was even there. Having stumble-walked his way over, Wesley sways unsteadily on his feet, but he focuses his clouded eyes on Bethany and Leandra.

With Aveline at her side, Leandra leans down, hugging Bethany’s shoulders one last time and whispering into her hair, “I love you, my dear. And I will _never_ forget you, Bethany.”

Aveline keeps her arms around Leandra’s shoulders, helping her stand. Their mother looks so vulnerable, sagging against Aveline as the two women get to their feet. Leandra stumbles over hers, as they step away from Bethany, who she never looks away from.

Aveline’s own face is clouded with grief. Though Bethany is not family to her, they’ve traveled together the past few days and come to rely on each other. Bonds formed through grief and mutual survival. And Bethany has always been so sweet and friendly, despite her magic – she could easily charm anyone, befriend them with her openness and genuinely caring nature.

The last left at his sister’s side, Carver doesn’t know what to say. Anything he could say feels hollow.

He ruffles her hair, the same way that he’s always done. But there’s no frown, no disgruntled swatting away of his hand, and Bethany smoothing out her hair. She simply… lays there and Carver doesn’t know what he was hoping to achieve. All it does is set alight that gaping emptiness that’s yawning wide and deep inside of him.

What would she do, if she were sitting here and it was him lying dead on the ground? Carver can’t help but ask himself that, to bounce the questions around in his head. Bethany was always the better of the two of them, the one who could smooth out their mother’s rough edges and her sometimes quick temper. He’s been nothing but _good_ at goading it, at picking at Gareth needlessly until his brother’s smile turns brittle sharp.

He looks at Bethany, traces her features, and tries his best to carve them into his memory. He can’t forget her. He never will.

Like Gareth, he leans down and presses a last lingering kiss to his sister’s forehead. Her skin feels cool against his lips. Squeezing his eyes closed, Carver chokes back his own sobs, pushing the pain and the anger down until it’s nothing but a simmering knot deep within his chest. He can work all of it out later, once they survive this.

Just as he pulls back, it hits him. A little bit like a bolt of his sister’s flames. Or the pebbles she liked to flick at his head when she thought he was being particularly mulish or sulky.

“I’ll make sure he smiles again one day,” Carver murmurs softly. “I’ll make sure that we _all_ do one day. We won’t forget you, Bethany. I promise. You’ll always be with us and _we will survive_. I’ll see to it.”

He takes both of Bethany’s hands, cold and going stiff now as death sinks in, and crosses them carefully over her chest. There’s little more that they can do for her, but keep the darkspawn from taking her body for their own purposes. It won’t be the same as the service that their father had when he passed, but she will go to the Maker’s side – and if anyone does, it would be Bethany, Carver thinks – with her family watching over her.

When he stands, Carver digs his fingers into his thighs harder than he needs to. The pain is grounding to him, gives him something to focus on; it reminds him that for all that his body is going numb, that he’s still alive. He will keep going, because he has to, because it’s all he’s ever known.

He steps back to stand with his mother and brother, hesitates before laying a hand on his mother’s shoulder.

Wesley’s voice is deep and carries despite the hissing of the wind, as he speaks, “Ashes we were and ashes we become, Maker give this young woman a place at your side. Let us take comfort in the peace she has found in eternity.”

For a second, Carver doesn’t believe that Gareth has it in him to do what needs to be done. He had never been party to the instruction that Gareth and Bethany received from their father, but he’s aware that Bethany always had a natural affinity for fire – for the elements. Though Gareth could easily conjure that strange fire of his – green and flecked with blue – he always seemed to struggle with what magic came easily to Bethany.

Destruction has never come easily to Gareth, Carver knows that from all the years that he sealed up Carver’s scratches and bruises. The Hawke family had remained scar-free, largely thanks to Gareth’s skill.

But now, there’s no need of healing. There is nothing within Bethany that Gareth can fix. Not even a spirit healer as powerful as his brother can turn back death.

His worries prove to be unfounded. The inferno that Gareth conjures is bright red, a flickering maelstrom of flame. It consumes Bethany, leaving the air heavy with the acrid smell of burning flesh. It isn’t the pyre that any of them would have chose, but it’s better than leaving her for the darkspawn.

Perhaps Gareth’s magic helps it along, but Bethany’s body is rapidly consumed by the flames. A long plume of deep black smoke stretches up into the sky, before it’s blown away by the wind.

Leandra sobs, quietly, into Aveline’s shoulder. Carver squeezes his mother’s shoulder, trying to offer her what comfort he can. It’s not much, but it’s all that any of them can do.

Wesley sways on his feet, hand going to his long healed wound. There’s something there, Carver knows, but he isn’t certain what it is – though he has his suspicions. He remembers the men in the infirmary at Ostagar, being tended to by mages and healers alike. The Wardens had come through, given advice where they could, and more than once had shaken their head at one poor sod or another. Though he’d only been there to run an errand, Carver realized what the Wardens were doing: those soldiers would not make it.

The taint was an ever present threat, something that lurked in the back corners of every mind. Their enemy were darkspawn. It was to be expected that some of their number would contract the taint. For those, there was no cure but a quick and merciful death.

If that’s what’s happened to Wesley… Carver’s heart thuds painfully in his chest. Then Bethany will not be going to the Maker’s side alone.

There’s precious little else that they can do. They only watch Bethany burn long enough to ensure that there will be nothing left of her for the darkspawn. It’s only a few precious minutes, but it stretches out into what feels like forever. Gareth stands straight, shoulders back, stave in hand, and stares as the flames lick up and around his little sister.

The stillness is shattered when Gareth draws a ragged breath. It sounds louder than it is, rasping against Carver’s ears.

“We need to keep moving,” Gareth says. He turns to face them now, mouth in a thin line and eyes glittering. The glow, however, has faded somewhat, “Our lives are more valuable to… to her than our prayers.”

Swallowing down the rest of his grief, Carver nods, “Let’s go.”

Aveline squeezes their mother’s shoulders, steadying her as she sways on her feet. Leandra sobs still, though quieter than before, and her breath comes in little hiccups, but she remains on her feet. She manages to give Aveline a thin, watery smile that doesn’t come close to reaching her eyes.

It will be a very long time, Carver knows, before anyone in their family smiles again. He’s not certain that they ever will. Looking at his mother, now, Carver worries that she may just fall to the ground and refuse to move; let the darkspawn take her just as they took Bethany.

Gareth’s already three steps ahead, stave at the ready and back straight. It’s strange to see him framed by the fading light of the sun; it washes all the colour out of him, leaving him little more than a dark, featureless silhouette. It reminds Carver of all those faceless, nameless heroes in the stories that Bethany used to tell – brought home from Sister Leliana.

Of course, Gareth isn’t the only thing that crests the horizon, clad in a silhouette of dying sunlight.

Darkspawn. More of them.

“Flames!” Aveline swears, drawing her blade and shield. “We’re too late!”

Carver readies his greatsword, taking up a position to Aveline’s right. Gareth is at Aveline’s other side and twirls his stave, readying himself for combat. Without Bethany, Gareth have to take the rear point; he’ll be the last line of defence between Leandra, Wesley, and the darkspawn.

Everything after that is a blur.

All Carver knows is battle. The next move. Block, slash, counter. Take a long enough swing to cleave through more than one. Clear the path. He fights with Aveline at his side. The two of them part, come together, and part again, fighting their way through the horde as it spills around them.

His strength is buoyed by Gareth, who closes their wounds as fast as they open and who pours what strength he can into them. He is only visible as a flash of white when he uses magic, stave a blur of motion as he slays what darkspawn manage to get past Aveline and Carver’s blades.

Even with Gareth shoring them up, Carver can feel the burn of exertion settling deep within his bones. Gradually, weariness builds up within him and he can feel himself tiring. He can only imagine how Gareth feels.

But there is no end to the horde. The darkspawn keep coming. Where one falls, two more surge forward to take their place.

If they had made any headway, they’ve lost it now. Simply lifting his sword makes Carver’s arms ache from the exertion. His feet slip underneath him, the dusty ground having turned into a quagmire of bloodied mud. The air stinks of death, of rot, of that terrible smell that Carver knows is unique to the darkspawn.

He’s forced back as is Aveline. Though Carver can see the twitching of muscles in Aveline’s arms, she doesn’t falter. Neither will he.

If they’re to die here, Carver thinks, they will go down fighting with blades in their hands.

The darkspawn shriek at them, a horrible grating noise. Their mouths are horrible mockeries of human mouths, nothing but rotted yellow teeth without lips. Beyond that, their mouths are black and their eyes are a horribly blank expanse of white. There’s very little to tell them apart from their fellows, each one looks almost exactly the same as the one beside it.

But… the darkspawn don’t charge them.

Instead, they seem to hesitate – if it were possible for them to do so. Their blank eyes don’t stare at Carver and the others that they have cornered. No, their blank eyes look up, towards the top of the small cliff that they’ve been pinned against.

Carver can’t look up. He refuses to look away from the darkspawn in front of them – the more immediate threat in his mind.

That changes quickly.

Leandra gasps, “Th-that’s–!”

“A dragon?!” Gareth swears, “Shit!”

The roar shakes Carver’s bones, makes his teeth chatter in his jaw. The ground underneath his feet trembles and he tears his eyes away from the darkspawn in time to catch sight of the dragon above them unfurl its wings with another mighty cry.

It _has_ to be a high dragon. Nothing else could be that huge, that terrifying.

It swoops down, around the darkspawn, raining fire from above. The darkspawn howl, practically running into each other as they attempt to escape, but there’s nowhere for them to go except to plunge straight into the flames that the dragon breathes down upon them.

The dragon snatches up one darkspawn, tearing into it with its teeth. Blood rains down in a torrent of black, before the unfortunate corpse hits the ground shortly thereafter.

When the high dragon lands, the ground shakes violently under their feet – nearly sending Carver sprawling. With a sweep of its tail, it takes out the stragglers, roaring at yet more darkspawn and sending them scurrying. With one of its giant, clawed forearms, it grabs one of the fleeing darkspawn, crushing it in its grasp as it lets out a triumphant cry.

What happens next, Carver will _never_ forget. Or speak of.

The high dragon glows, lines of bright gold shooting up along the entire length of its body. Then, in a small twister of magic and wind, it twirls until the dragon’s form shrinks down and takes a human form. For a moment, Carver can see the glowing form of a woman in the heart of the swirling air. It calms, slowly, leaving behind an older woman, clad in deep-red armour and a horned headdress with a shock of white air and glittering gold eyes.

She drags her prey behind her, before dropping it unceremoniously to the ground. The corners of her mouth tug up into a smile which sends chills down Carver’s spine.

“Well, well,” she says. “What have we here?”

Her eyes trail over all of them, taking each of them in. Carver swallows the fear that has leapt into his throat; whatever this woman is, he doubts that any of them are a match to her. Even together, he’s certain that she could wipe them all out with a mere swipe of her hand.

“It used to be we never got visitors to the Wilds,” she continues, hip cocked to the side. “Now it seems they arrive in hordes!”

Carver nearly jumps out of his skin when Gareth lays a steadying hand on his shoulder. Even though he knows his brother stands no chance against this woman, his presence lends Carver new strength.

“It looks like we owe you our thanks,” Gareth says. He keeps the blade of his stave pointed down and away from the dragon woman as he speaks. “I don’t know what we would have done if you hadn’t arrived.”

“I do!” The woman laughs, “You would have perished. You still may.”

She turns away from them, her mouth still quirked up in an amused smirk, “If you wish to flee the darkspawn, you should know you are going in the wrong direction.”

“So you’re just going to leave us here?” Carver blurts out the question and immediately regrets it. He doesn’t look at Gareth, even though he knows his brother is giving him a warning look.

“And why not?” she retorts. She pauses, her voice strangely lilting as she talks, “I spotted a most curious sight: a mighty ogre, vanquished! Who could perform such a feat? But now my curiosity is sated and you are safe… for the moment. Is that not enough?”

Their deaths have only been postponed, it seems. Though the dragon woman might have seemed their salvation for a brief moment, it’s clear that she doesn’t care.

Gareth sighs and runs a trembling hand through his hair, but when he addresses the dragon woman, he lets none of his exhaustion show, “We won’t be able to get through the darkspawn on their own.”

“They are everywhere… or soon will be.” She tilts her head to the side, her unnaturally gold gaze flickering over Gareth as she speaks, “And where is it you plan to run to, hm?”

“We’re going to Kirkwall – in the Free Marches,” Carver says. It isn’t just that the woman is a dragon – or the dragon is a woman – that sets Carver ill at ease. Something else about her makes Carver nervous, has him fearful of lying to her. It’s almost like a compulsion: tell her the truth and tell her as quickly as possible. Maybe then she’ll leave them alone. Or help them.

Honestly, he would rather face the darkspawn than accept help from the woman standing before them.

“Kirkwall?” Her eyebrows go up, towards her hairline, “My, but that is quite the voyage you plan. So far… simply to flee the darkspawn.”

“Our home’s gone,” Gareth replies, the slightest tremor in his voice. “We have nowhere else to go.”

According to their mother, at least, they still have family there. Family that neither Carver nor Gareth have ever met and have rarely heard of. Carver only remembers that his grandparents passed shortly after he was born. And as for their uncle? Well, their mother rarely spoke of her own brother.

“I see.”

The woman turns away from them, an arm crossed across her chest while the other cups her chin between index finger and thumb. She hums thoughtfully to herself for a few moments, leaving them to stew in that strange mixture of hope and desolation.

Carver hates it. The entire feeling is sickening. And it’s only made worse by the stench of burning darkspawn.

His attention is jerked away from the woman by the sound of stone scuffing against armour. Turning his head, he catches sight of Wesley’s legs giving out beneath him. He would have fallen straight to the ground had Aveline not caught him.

She carefully lowers her husband to the ground, cradling his head against her shoulder, and whispering something to him. Carver can’t hear the words, but he can guess at their meaning. He hopes she’s not promising him that he’ll live through this, because Carver _knows_ now that there’s little that they can do for Wesley. If not even Gareth could heal him, then he is beyond hope.

There’s little that they can do for him now. Except give him a quick death, much like the Wardens gave those who contracted the taint at Ostagar.

Carver looks back to the dragon woman, waits for her to make a decision.

“Hurtled into the chaos, you fight. And the world will shake before you,” the woman muses quietly, almost to herself. But if that were the case, wouldn’t she say nothing? “Is it fate or chance? I can never decide.”

Whatever decision she’s going to make, Carver hopes she makes it quickly. He shifts on his feet, muscles complaining at the slightest shift. He’s beyond exhausted, which likely means that Gareth’s far worse. He casts a sidelong look at his brother, whose face is pale with a flush of darkening pink high in his cheeks. There’s a very slight tremble in the line of his jaw. Aside from those signs, there’s nothing else to signal that his brother could very well collapse at any moment.

The woman whirls to face them, a truly wicked smile on her face, “It appears fortune smiles on us both today. I may be able to help you yet.”

Gareth’s face creases into a deep frown, “Just like that? There must be a catch.”

She throws her head back, laughing, “There is always a catch! Life is a catch! I suggest you catch it while you can!”

“Should we even trust her? We don’t even know what she is,” Carver says to Gareth. He’s certain that he’s only voicing what they’re all thinking.

Aveline is the one who answers, venom in her voice that Carver hasn’t heard from her in their days of travel together, “I know what she is: The Witch of the Wilds.”

The woman’s smile softens a little at its sharp edges, “Some call me that. Also Flemeth. Asha’bellanar. An ‘old hag who talks too much’. Does it matter? I offer you this: I will get your group past the horde in exchange for a delivery to a place not far out of your way. Would you do this for a ‘Witch of the Wilds’?”

Tilting his head back to the rest of them, Gareth asks, “Should we trust her?”

“Wesley is ill,” Aveline says, gently brushing hair away from his face. “We’ll never escape the darkspawn.”

Sounding as though he’s trying to cough up a lung, it takes Wesley a long moment to speak and when he does, his voice is hoarse and weak, “If it comes to it, leave me behind.”

“No!” Aveline’s hand tightens into a fist, before she loosens it. She cups her husband’s face, tilts it into the shelter of her neck, “I said I would drag you out if I had to and I meant it!”

Carver shrugs when Gareth looks at him.

“We don’t have a choice,” Gareth says, staring at the Witch of the Wilds before them. Name your price.”

She steps towards Gareth, holding out her hand. In the palm of her hand, glints a pendant. Something deep and red swirls around inside of it. It looks like a vial of some kind, which is encircled by a dragon and attached to a thick, leather cord. Gareth takes the pendant from her and the woman closes his hand around it.

“There is a clan of Dalish elves that will be near the city of Kirkwall in the near future,” she says. “Deliver this amulet to their Keeper, Marethari. Do this, and any debt between us is paid in full.”

Gareth nods, pulling his hand away from her, “We have a deal.”

Flemeth smiles and nods at him, “Excellent. Before I take you anywhere, however, there is another matter…”

Her gaze lands on Wesley, with his waxy skin and blackened veins standing out in harsh contrast to the warm, flushed skin of his wife.

Aveline reacts accordingly.

“ _No_ ,” Aveline snaps. “Leave him alone.”

There’s a wistfully sad note in Flemeth’s voice as she speaks to Aveline, something that Carver didn’t think that a Witch of the Wilds would have in her.

“What has been done to your man is within his blood already.”

“You lie!” She clings tightly to her husband, shielding him with her body as best as she can.

Wesley lays a hand over hers, breathing laboured. It sounds wet, as though it’s sticking in his lungs, “She’s… she’s right, Aveline. I can feel… the corruption inside me.”

Gareth looks lost, desolate, in that moment. There are many things he can do outside of a normal healer’s range, but here, he is helpless. It’s like their father’s death all over again. There’s pain – old pain – etched into his face when he looks at Flemeth, and there’s a soft desperation in her voice as he pleads, “There must be _something_ we can do.”

Flemeth shakes her head, wearily, “The only cure I know of is to become a Grey Warden.”

Aveline’s shoulders slump as she hears that and she sags against the ground and her husband, “And they all died at Ostagar…”

“Not all,” Flemeth corrects her, softly. “But the last of them are now beyond your reach.”

There are times where Carver hates being right. This is one of them.

He turns away from Aveline and Wesley, just as Gareth steps past him to kneel beside the two of them. Whatever happens next, is for the two of them. And, he supposes, for his brother. Yet another reminder of someone who he could not save.

“Aveline, listen to me,” Wesley says.

The man’s strong, Carver knows that much. The majority of the men he saw who contracted the taint lost themselves to it quickly and started rambling about a song that only they could hear. To have held onto himself for so long… it deserves respect.

“You can’t ask me this!” Aveline sobs. “I won’t! I… I can’t...”

Gareth’s voice is soft as he speaks and Carver can envision him resting a hand on Aveline’s shoulder to give her support and comfort, “He’s your husband, Aveline. I can’t decide his fate. Let him make the decision.”

There’s the rasp of a knife being drawn from a sheath. Silence for several long seconds.

“Be strong, my love,” Wesley says.

His words are followed by a pained grunt. The sound of a blade slicing through flesh. Then nothing.

Leandra startles Carver, laying her hands on his shoulders and clinging to them tightly. He lays a hand on top of one of hers and squeezes it. They have done what they could. Bethany will not go to the Maker’s side alone, for certainly Wesley will join her there.

He hopes that they do, at least, because he can’t fathom Bethany being alone. She’ll find their father there too. They’re free. He repeats those words, over and over, to try and drown out the emptiness inside of him.

Carver doesn’t turn to look when Flemeth twists her hand, sparks flying off the armour of her gauntlet. The sound of flames roaring behind him, the flash of heat, is more than enough to tell him what she’s done.

Neither Wesley nor Bethany have received a proper pyre, but they have both gone to the Maker with their loved ones near and watching over them. Even if he hardly knew Wesley, he was a good man and no one deserved the fate he was dealt.

Life isn’t fair.

They only linger for a few minutes. Brief, but enough for each of them to lose themselves in their own thoughts.

“Without an end, there can be no peace,” Flemeth says, at long last. She turns from them, her body beginning to glow, “It gets no easier. Your struggles have only just begun.”

With a roar and a rush of magic, Flemeth resumes her dragon form. She crouches low to the ground, legs folded in such a manner that they can easily climb onto her back.

Carver really hopes that he isn’t going to be sick.

 

 

 

 

Flight by dragon is… something else.

It’s incredibly freeing, marvelous, and Carver has to remember not to look down or else his head starts spinning.

He’s actually surprised at how comfortable it is. There aren’t any handholds for any of them to hold onto, so they have to clench down with their thighs to avoid being thrown off. Carver sits at the join between Flemeth’s neck and her shoulders, followed by Gareth, then their mother, with Aveline in the back.

Against the back of his neck, he can feel the feverish flush of Gareth’s forehead. Gareth had waited until they were in the air to lean forward, resting his head there. His breathing is laboured, hard, and his sleep is restless and shallow.

During the short flight, Carver tries to remember what little they have left in their packs. When they arrive in Gwaren, they’ll need to purchase a little more food. He’s not sure how long the journey by sea will be to Kirkwall, but what they have will likely not last them two weeks.

There’s also the matter of what their journey will cost. They won’t be the only ones looking to flee Ferelden and the Blight for the safety of the Free Marches. It will likely cost them. And without the safety and familiarity of Lothering, they can’t risk their usual methods of currying favour and funds. It’s too dangerous for Gareth to heal anyone without arousing templar suspicion.

Carver, however, has a few pieces that he’s whittled into little decorations and carvings in his pack. Those they can sell, along with anything else that’s non-essential. If need be, Carver and Gareth can likely offer themselves as labour to any ship that’s sailing and short of manpower. Aveline too, come to think of it; that should be more than enough to pay for Leandra’s crossing as well.

It won’t be easy, that much Carver knows. But what choice do they have?

 

 

 

 

Flemeth leaves them a safe distance from Gwaren. She takes off, back into the Wilds, without a second glance at them. Gareth has her amulet around his neck, the pendant tucked safely out of sight down his tunic.

As Carver feared, the city is crowded with refugees who, much like them, are trying to flee to wherever they might find safety.

“How are we going to find a ship to take us to Kirkwall?” Leandra murmurs. “We’ve hardly any money…”

Each of them had emptied their pockets and packs before they’d entered the city. It’s very little and Carver doubts that it will be enough to get them across the Waking Sea.

“Carver will see what we can sell for a good price. You should take Waffles with you,” Gareth says, massaging his temples. His cheeks are flushed, eyes glassy, and his voice sounds tired, but he’s still on his feet. “Mother, you should go with him. Aveline and I will find a ship that’s going to Kirkwall and see if we can negotiate a fair price. We’ll meet there, at the end of the docks, in an hour.”

The two groups split up, Aveline and Gareth heading for the stretch of docks while Leandra and Carver make their way towards Gwaren’s marketplace, with Waffles trotting along beside them..

Quickly, Carver learns that the marketplace has fallen to chaos. People are selling whatever they can and many are gouging out higher prices than what anything would normally sell for. Foodstuffs, he realizes, are out of the question; the merchants he encounters are selling the basics for more than an arm and a leg.

“It’s criminal what they’re doing,” Leandra says, dusting herself off. They had to hold hands, navigating the cramped and crowded marketplace, to avoid being separated. “We’re all trying to escape the darkspawn. Who tries to make a profit at such a time?”

Carver snorts, “Someone who thinks they’ll be alive to enjoy it.”

It’s not much, what they’ve made, but Carver was relieved to find that Bethany had the sense to pack a few things of value. Leandra hadn’t objected to him selling what remained of the good china – as she had put it years earlier – or the candlesticks that had _somehow_ ended up cushioned in the bottom of one pack. They kept the small, miniature portrait of his father – a wedding gift to Leandra from him.

Weighing his wallet, Carver sighs, “Well, it’s more than I could have hoped for. C’mon, we’ll go see if Gareth and Aveline have had any luck in finding us a ship.”

“It shouldn’t be too much trouble. Only Ostwick is closer than Kirkwall. There are only so many options of where to go.”

Aveline’s the only one waiting for them at their designated meeting place. With her arms crossed and glaring out at the passing people, she looks formidable. Even with the redness that rims her eyes. She spots them easily and waves them over.

“We’re in luck,” she says. “We found a ship that’s willing to take us – along with a dozen others – to Kirkwall. We managed to negotiate the price down, but it’s still ridiculous.”

“They’re going to make a small fortune out of extortion,” Carver remarks. “Not every day you can profit off a Blight.”

Aveline scowls, but says nothing.

To Carver, the ship that’s supposed to take them to Kirkwall looks more like a dingy than an actual boat. Maybe his expectations were too big, considering he’d been picturing one of those large ones that used to feature in the stories he was told growing up of dashing Rivaini raiders.

Still, if it will take them across the Waking Sea and to Kirkwall, then that’s all that matters. Even if it looks like it’ll capsize if the waves grow to be too big.

The four of them clamour aboard, with Carver paying the ship’s captain – a man with more wrinkles than Elder Miriam and who stinks of ale and unwashed socks – the price for their passage. It almost completely empties their coin purse. It’s even lighter than it might have been, as they have to pay for the addition of Waffles as well.

Before he goes to join his family below deck, Carver turns to look back at Gwaren and the forest that stretches out beyond it. He stares at Ferelden, remembers his home far beyond this city, and closes his eyes for a moment and breathes in deeply. He can almost smell the manure, the smell of wet dog, and of wheat just before the harvest.

Carver opens his eyes, looks long and hard at what he can see, then turns his back and follows Gareth down into the boat.

Ferelden will always be home to him.

 

 

 

 

Carver discovers very quickly that none of them are cut out for the exciting life of a sailor.

Having pushed himself so hard to keep them going, Gareth’s fever peaks and he spends the majority of their journey either delirious and half-conscious with his head in Aveline or their mother’s lap, or throwing up whatever’s in his stomach into the nearest bucket.

Yes, of all things, his brother is prone to seasickness.

And Carver, being the loving and caring brother that he is, is the one who has to haul the buckets of vomit up onto the deck to toss over the side of the ship. Leandra and Aveline, on the other hand, take turns coaxing Gareth into drinking water, which he’s lucky to keep down. Carver alternates between watching over his family and spending his time on the top deck, watching the sea and Ferelden coast pass them by.

It’s actually a relief when, according to one of the sailors, two days out from Kirkwall, Gareth finally falls into a deep sleep.

 

 

 

 

Though still weak from his protracted bout with seasickness and his overexertion of his magical abilities, Gareth joins Carver on the deck when they finally make their arrival into Kirkwall. They sail through the tall, black cliffs, past hulking bronze statues mounted into the cliff-sides of weeping slaves. The statues line the walls, their sightless faces covered by their hands.

The two of them stand in silence as the ship slowly makes its way through the narrow pass.

Their first glimpse of Kirkwall isn’t of the city proper. Instead, what they’re greeted by is a large, hulking structure that dominates the harbour, located on its own little island. Made from the same dark stone as the cliffs, the fortress is an imposing sight – clearly meant to strike fear into the hearts of all those who see it.

“Cheery place,” Carver remarks.

Gareth says nothing, only stares at the tower that rises out of the island. Waffles nudges his hand, then curls up protectively around Gareth’s feet – as though he can ward away the illness that’s plagued Gareth since stepping foot on the boat and from whatever’s to come.

“Welcome to the Gallows,” the captain says. He and the crew shepard all of them from the ship – none too gently in a few cases. “Enjoy Kirkwall’s ‘famed’ hospitality.”

They’re left on the docks, hungry and cold, but alive. Though Gareth still looks far too pale to be completely healthy, he’s no longer swaying on his feet and his eyes have lost that glassy look of theirs. They leave behind the stink and crush of the docks where countless ships are unloading fellow Fereldan refugees, and make towards where the gates of the city should be.

“I hope Gamlen received my letter…” Leandra murmurs.

Aveline points towards a large group of people a little ways ahead of them, her mouth turned down into a frown, “They’re not letting anyone into the city.”

“What?!” Leandra rolls onto the balls of her feet, trying to see over the crowd, “That can’t be!”

“Look at them all,” Aveline says, shrugging her shoulders.

“Are we really surprised?” Carver asks, crossing his arms. He’d cleaned and wrapped his great sword on the boat, crafting a makeshift sling to carry it with; the strap of which digs uncomfortably into his chest. “Everyone’s fleeing the Blight, just as we are.”

Aveline snorts, “And they would throw us all back to the wolves. Unbelievable.”

They don’t have the coin to be able to afford a return journey to the north – not to Highever nor Denerim. They’re trapped here.

“So long as we’re all safe, that’s more important,” Gareth says. Though there’s a smile on his face to reassure them, it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“We need to find Gamlen,” Leandra says firmly. “Our family has always been highly regarded in Kirkwall. He can do something, I’m sure of it.”

Carver sighs. Here they are, relying on an uncle that they’ve never met with only their mother’s word to go on that he can be trusted, “Let’s hope he received your letter.”

Craning her head so that she can see over the crowd, Aveline points, “The guards seem to be reporting to that man. Perhaps we should speak to him?”

“It’s a good place to start,” Gareth replies.

Making their way through the angry crowd, it’s easy to see that everyone here is on edge. People keep shouting questions and demands at the guards, who either ignore them or give mocking replies. Everyone is uneasy, whispering between each other about what this means – that they’ll be thrown back to Ferelden and the Blight that they’ve come here to escape from.

It’s not a promising welcome, that’s for sure.

The guard that Aveline had pointed out is easy enough to spot. He’s standing in front of a loose line of them, each of them wearing the exact same set of armour. While the other guards are faceless – a given, as each of them is wearing a helmet – the one who Aveline purports to be in charge isn’t wearing one. Rather, his weak, weaselly face stares out at the crowd, with one corner of his mouth pulled up into a nasty grin.

Aveline is the first of them to make it of the front, clearing enough space for the rest of them with the sheer force of her presence alone. Honestly, Carver’s amazed that the guards don’t quail before her, as he’s certain that she could kill a man with the force of her glare alone.

“Get back in the crowd you lot!” he snaps, gesturing at them to shoo. “Trying to bully your way into Kirkwall won’t get you in any faster.”

Aveline shifts, laying a hand almost casually on the hilt of her blade, “But you _do_ intend to let us in?”

He rolls back onto his heels, a hand on his own weapon as though daring Aveline to draw her sword and give him an excuse to lord his power over them. Carver hates the man already. Then, the man laughs.

“We have enough poor of our own in the Free Marches. We don’t need you refugees piling up here like a middens heap.”

The two guards next to him aren’t paying attention, shifting from one foot to another. Their armour is smooth, unblemished, and highly polished. There’s also a crispness to the leather of their sheaths that Carver’s only seen once before, on the blades newly crafted for the officers in the king’s army to commemorate their new positions. Clearly, the guards stationed here aren’t used to seeing any action; Carver’s certain that if push came to shove, they could easily force their way past them.

There’s no point to it, though. They need to get into the city and forcing their way in through a violent, bloody fight is the last way to go about it. They can’t risk drawing attention to themselves, not with his brother the apostate among them.

“Why aren’t we being allowed in?” Gareth asks. He’d shouldered his stave, keeping it carefully tucked behind him, though the blade was visible between his legs and the bright red of the stone at its tip peeks over his shoulder.

Carver prays hard and swiftly to the Maker that no one questions his brother’s strange polearm.

“If it were up to me, I’d bar the gates and have you find somewhere else to beg,” the guard snorts. Then he shrugs lazily, “But it’s not. Some of you might have actual business in the city. So Knight-Commander Meredith wants us all to sort you out. Most of you’ll be getting straight back on your ships, though.”

Carver blinks, “Knight-Commander?”

“That’s a templar title,” Gareth continues, exchanging a meaningful look with Carver. “Why would a city guardsman answer to the templars?”

That clearly rankles the guard. He snaps straight out of his slouch, scowling so hard that it could curdle milk, “We don’t answer to her! … but she _is_ the power in Kirkwall. Dunno what would happen if the viscount went against something she wanted. But he’s sure never taken that chance.”

Gently, Gareth says, “There must be someone in charge I can speak with.”

With a roll of his eyes and a sigh, the guard replies, “Yes, yes, always the same story with your lot. You want in, you talk to Captain Ewald. I’m just here to keep you refuse from climbing the walls. Now get moving.”

Carver feels a pang of guilt as their allowed past the line of guards. But once passed them, he realizes that there’s little point. They’re still not in the city proper and even here, there are refugees everywhere. In the long, winding path of stairs and enclosed halls that lead away from the docks, people huddle into corners and engage in hushed conversation.

It’s a dismal and desolate place, not helped by the carvings on the walls of weeping slaves. They’re on each and every wall, with spiked portcullises gating off entire section. It doesn’t feel anything like a port; not even the hectic chaos and cramped quarters of Gwaren felt like this. Rather, the entire place feels hopeless and that sinks into Carver.

He remembers that their father said that some places absorb emotions and energy from the people who lived there. Sort of like magic, but not really. It was something that anyone could feel, not just a mage. The Gallows of Kirkwall feel like a prison.

“What do you think this place is?” Carver asks. “Besides a holding pen for us.”

“A prison, most likely,” Aveline replies.

“No,” Gareth interrupts, jerking his head towards the structure that towers over all of them. “It’s Kirkwall’s Circle of Magi.”

“Should we be this close?” Leandra asks, in a low voice. She places a hand on Gareth’s arm, looking at her eldest with worry clear in her eyes. “The templars–”

Gareth places his hand over hers, squeezing it, and smiles, “So long as I don’t use any magic, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry, mother. We’ll be sure to keep a low profile.”

Leandra doesn’t look convinced, but she drops her hand. She keeps clasping and unclasping them in front of her stomach, but she says nothing. But she keeps a wary eye on each guard and refugee that they pass, as though there might be a templar hiding behind any of them.

“How can you tell that’s the Circle?” Aveline asks.

Carver would like to point out that their hushed tones make them look more suspicious than they already are. Though, it seems moot because _everyone_ is looking at everyone else with the same shifty eyes. There’s going to be no keeping a low profile, no matter what Gareth says to pacify their mother.

“I can sense it,” Gareth replies. He continues, frowning, “The magical currents – makes it rather obvious.”

They emerge from the maze of passageways into a large, sprawling courtyard at the foot of the Circle’s tower. Up close, it’s far larger than Carver first thought, though it’s no less intimidating. Here as well are statues of slaves, each one an example of agony forever immortalized in shining bronze. They line the edges of the courtyard on the columns, and there are two collections of them that flank the staircase which leads up towards the tower.

It’s a depressing and dreary sight. Carver can’t imagine being a mage here, constantly being reminded that they’re trapped in a prison for the rest of their life. He can’t imagine Gareth living here, trapped in this tower; it sounds like the start of one of Bethany’s clichéd love stories. The ones that she was always so fond of.

His heart skips a beat, drops into his stomach, at the thought of Bethany.

In time, Carver knows, it will get easier. He remembers how the grief when his father died had been all-encompassing. With time, it had faded, though sometimes it would hit him hard and unexpectedly.

But Bethany is different. She is – _was_ – his little sister. She was the baby of the family. Always the best of them.

He could have saved her. He could have. He would have gladly given his life for hers.

It’s not fair.

Carver’s shaken out of his mournful thoughts by a shout.

“Let us through, you flaming blighter! We’re not staying in this pit!”

There a small group of about six heavily armed men at the base of the stairs. Carver recognizes the sigil on the shields that two of them have as being that of South Reach. Likely, they’re either deserters or survivors of Ostagar. Carver thinks that they’re probably the former.

“Then get back on your ship and leave. Kirkwall has no more room for refugees,” comes a man’s bored voice. The deserters are directing all their vitriol at a red-haired man who looks as though he’s dealing with a large stack of reports than a potential riot.

“The ship’s already gone! We paid good coin to get here!” Another of the deserters jabs a finger at the red-haired man.

Carver assumes that the man is the Captain Ewald that they’re looking for. His armour does look slightly different than the others…

“You and half of Ferelden,” Ewald says, swatting the finger and its attached hand away from him casually. “Look, there’s nothing that I can do. The city is _full_.”

Gareth being Gareth, he chooses this moment to enter the conversation, “One of the guards said you were letting in those who have business in the city.”

That definitely catches the attention of the deserters. Their leader, Carver assumes, swirls on Ewald full force, “That’s right! We’ve seen you let lots of people through!”

“Citizens and merchants who make it worth our while,” Ewald continues, in that same bored, uninterested tone that he’s held for the entire conversation thus far. He gives Gareth a once-over, “I’ll assume that you don’t have any more coin than these gentlemen? We’ve been letting you Fereldans in for months; you’re too late. There’s no more room.”

“But we’ve got family here!” Carver interjects. What’s the use of family connections if you don’t get to use them? Besides, he’s tired, cranky from having to look after his ill brother, and just wants to keep ground under him that _doesn’t_ move.

“I’ve heard claims like that a thousand times already. Trust me, we’ll find ships to take you all back to Ferelden… eventually. But till then, you stay here.”

“Our uncle is Gamlen Amell,” Gareth says quickly. “He knows we’re coming. Surely, someone could find him.”

The name makes Ewald pause and he looks at Gareth more seriously, “Gamlen? I know Gamlen.”

“He’s a nobleman here in the city,” Carver presses. “Our family has an estate.”

“A nobleman?” Ewald’s eyebrows go up, “The only Gamlen I know is a weasel who couldn’t rub two coppers together. He comes back, I’ll bring him to you. But I don’t have time to–”

“What?! You’re gonna let _them_ through?!”

Ewald sighs, “I didn’t say anything about–”

“We’ve been here for four days! They _just_ got here!”

The leader turns to yell at his men, “That’s it! We’re carving our way out of here! Men!”

Things quickly devolve into a brawl.

Gareth automatically tucks Leandra behind him. His stave comes free from its bindings with a quick twirl, before he uses it to deflect a blow, then smack the offending deserter in the head with the non-lethal end.

For his part, Carver keeps track of Gareth just enough to know where he is. He extends that same awareness to Aveline, the three of them falling into an easy rhythm of attack, defend, and counter perfected by long days of fighting darkspawn together.

The fight is abysmally short, aided by the fact that the guardsmen are dragged into it as well. Ewald himself strikes down two, while Gareth impales the leader to the ground with his stave, ending it.

“Unbelievable,” Ewald says, rolling his eyes. He flicks blood off his sword, before he sheaths it again at his waist.

One of the guards runs over to him from the far end of the courtyard, “Captain! Are you alright?!”

“I am, no thanks to you. Where is everyone? Go find them! I want this kept under control!” Ewald turns to Gareth, looking a little more amused than he did before, “You have my thanks. Look,” he sighs, “I can’t get you into the city, it’s not my decision. But I’ll find your uncle and bring him here.”

“Thank you,” Gareth says, smiling.

 

 

 

 

“It’s been three days,” Aveline says, pacing back and forth. Carver’s amazed that she hasn’t worn a track into the stone. “This waiting has to end.”

Leandra, as she has been for the past two days, attempts to be mollifying, “I’m sure it won’t be much longer. Gamlen must still be looking for us.”

His mother can’t see it, but Carver rolls his eyes. She’s said the same thing, practically verbatim, repeatedly for the past two days. It’s become nothing more than a stock response, giving none of them any actual answers. And the guards have been no help, either. Apparently their uncle is a very difficult man to find.

“And if he’s not?” Aveline retorts.

Gareth pushes away from the wall he’s been leaning against, “Wait, I think someone’s coming.”

The man that approaches is barely taller than their mother, grey-haired and distinctly over the hill. He looks like he hasn’t seen a razor in days and like someone _might_ have just pulled him out of a ditch somewhere after he had one too many pints at the local bar. He reminds Carver very much of the regulars at Dane’s, always been turned out late into the night and making their stumbling way home.

Unlike Leandra, his eyes are a deep brown and, when he sees her, his face lights up into a bright smile that reveals the potential for a handsome man, “Leandra! Damn, girl! The years haven’t been kind to you!”

“Gamlen!” Leandra smiles, bright and wide. The fine lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth crinkle, and she throws herself into the man’s arms, holding him in a tight hug.

It’s a very awkward embrace. Or looks like one, at least.

Gamlen’s the one who pulls away first, looking distinctly uncomfortable as he shifts on his feet, “Let me say upfront: I wasn’t expecting this. The Blight, your husband… dead. I’d, uh, figured you’d pretty much be Fereldan for life.”

Leandra’s face falls, her eyes tearing up, “Oh, Gamlen… we came too late. My darling Bethany… didn’t make it. Andraste guide her.”

“Oh Maker save me,” Gamlen drags his hands down his face. “Leandra, don’t drop this on me here. I don’t know if I can help you get in.”

“I’m more concerned about mother,” Gareth says, stepping forward. “Can you get her in at least?”

“No,” Leandra turns to Gareth, mouth set in a stern line. “We stay _together_.”

With that, the matter’s settled. There’ll be no swaying their mother from her decision now and Carver agrees with her. They’ve already lost Bethany and without Gareth or Carver, there’d be no breadwinner for the family.

“I was hoping to grease some palms,” Gamlen says, rubbing the back of his head, before his shoulders slump. “But the knight-commander’s been cracking down. We’re gonna need more grease.”

“But… what about the estate?” Leandra blinks, “Surely father left something when he died…”

“Right, uh, about the estate… it’s, um, gone. To settle a debt. I’ve been meaning to write you.” Gamlen sighs, not meeting any of their eyes – much less their mother’s.

Leandra’s shoulder sag and she crumples in on herself, wrapping her arms around herself as though that will hold her together. “Then there’s no hope.”

“N-not quite,” Gamlen says quickly. “I know some people who might help. If… you’re not too delicate about the company you keep.”

“We don’t have any choice, do we,” Gareth sighs. “I need to get my family into Kirkwall.”

“I talked to my contacts and I found some people who might be willing to pay your way into the city. The catch is,” Gamlen pauses, glances away, “you and your brother will have to work off the debt… for a year.”

“A year?!” Leandra stares, mouth wide.

“It’s the best I could do,” Gamlen says, defensively. He holds his hands up, as though to ward off his own sister. “Trust me when I say a bunch of refugees won’t get a better option anywhere else.”

Gareth stares, mouth agape, “So you’re _selling_ us into indentured servitude? _That’s_ your idea?”

“Think of it as having a job waiting for you in your new home,” Gamlen shrugs.

“I guess it’s only a year, right?” Carver interjects. It’s only a year and, in exchange, they’ll have work and somewhere to live that’s not being threatened by darkspawn. And, if they’re lucky, it will keep the templars from sniffing them out.

“I managed to convince my contacts to come to the Gallows to meet you personally,” Gamlen explains. “Meeran heads up the mercenary company, the Red Iron. They’re looking for recruits. Athenril… I guess you might call her a smuggler. Either one of them can help you. All you need to do is find them in the courtyard and convince them that you’re worth the trouble.”

Gareth frowns, thoughtfully, then he tilts his head to Carver, “What do you think?”

“What can I say? Better here than nowhere,” Carver replies, with a little half-shrug. It doesn’t matter what they do; it’ll come down to whatever Gareth decides and he’ll just go along with that. No complaints, just as he always has.

After a long pause, Gareth asks, “How dangerous is this smuggler’s work?”

“Well, it won’t be pretty working for her,” Gamlen says, sounding relieved. “She’s a pretty small fish compared to some of the other thieves’ guilds around here. But she’s tough, she’s fair, and she never deals in slaves or flesh.”

Gareth nods, “We’ll find her and see what she has to say.”

“Oh, Gamlen. I don’t know about this…” Leandra begins to say.

Gamlen looks at her with a careless shrug of his shoulders, “It’s a lot of coin, Leandra. Don’t go expecting our name to carry the kind of weight it used to.”

“And what of me? I will not allow others to incur debts on my behalf,” Aveline interjects.

Gamlen’s mouth turns up in a lecherous grin, looking Aveline up and down, “Can’t see that it makes a difference: you look like a lady who can pull her own weight.”

“You’ll come with us,” Leandra says, firmly. She reaches up and squeezes both of Aveline’s shoulders, smiling.

“I… have no real option. Thank you,” Aveline bows her head, mouth curling up into a soft, shy smile.

They leave Leandra and Gamlen in one corner of the courtyard, to catch up, while the three of them venture out to find where this Athenril might be. Carver trails along, slightly behind Gareth and Aveline, listening absently to their conversation as they cross the courtyard towards a shady little enclave right off of it. If smugglers are going to be anywhere here, it’s probably going to be there. Or, at least, Carver guesses that’s the reasoning.

“Are you sure about this?” Aveline asks, quietly. “Smugglers?”

Gareth shrugs, “It’s work and I’m an apostate; I don’t have many options if I want to keep the templars from noticing me. If Gamlen’s right about her not dallying in flesh or slaves, than it would mostly be moving goods. That I can handle. And less suspicion that way, too.”

“I suppose.”

In the small enclave, there’s a quartet of people. Three of them are elves and the last one is human. One of the elves, a woman, turns to face them as they approach. Carver’s not seen anything like her armour before, but she’s quite pretty – with red hair, fair skin, and pretty green eyes like the leaves in summer.

She cocks her head to the side once their close enough, looking each of them over with a careful eye.

Gareth clears his throat, “Are you Athenril?”

“You must be Gamlen’s nephew. Interesting.” Her smile is razor sharp and she crosses her arms, “I don’t know what he told you about us, but he certainly told us a great deal about you.”

Carver blinks, heat rising in his cheeks, “Er… how much, exactly?”

“Enough to pique our interest,” Athenril replies, tone unusually sultry to Carver’s ears. “Provided you can justify your uncle confidence, of course.”

“I’d like to know more about what we’d be doing for you,” Gareth says, drawing her attention back to him. He seems largely unaffected by Athenril, hand on one hip while the other casually holds his stave to his side.

“I can be honest. We don’t compete with the thieves’ guilds, but we do keep our fingers in a lot of pots. That said, we’re not killers or slavers. Anything short of that, however, is fair game.”

“Do what you want,” Aveline mutters, “but this sounds fishy to me.”

“Begging and taking your pick never went hand-in-hand,” Carver retorts.

Aveline sighs, “Alright.”

Gareth, however, continues his discussion with Athenril about the terms of their… employment. He remarks, “I hear that getting us into the city isn’t cheap.”

“If you’re as good as your uncle claims, we’re hoping you’ll be worth it.” Athenril grins, leaning in close to conspiratorially whisper, “After all, it’s not every day we’re offered an apostate’s services.”

Gareth blinks, surprised, “I didn’t Gamlen had told you you that much.”

Athenril laughs, the sound low and husky. “The templars in Kirkwall like to think that they have all the mages properly leashed, but when has that ever been true? We can keep them from taking notice while you’re with us. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

None of them say anything for a few moments, then Gareth breaks the silence by saying, “And how do we convince you to let us sign on?”

Athenril’s grin blossoms into a smile, still all sharp edges, “There’s a merchant here in the Gallows by the name of Cavril. Friend of the templars, so they let him set up a little shop here. We supplied him in return for a piece of the take, but now he won’t pay up. We can’t go near him without him screaming for the guard… but _you_ can. Get our money from him and you’re in.”

Gareth inclines his head, then the three of them leave Athenril and re-enter the main area of the courtyard. The shop in question is easy enough to find, as it’s the only one in the courtyard. It’s occupied by a balding man, who is in deep conversation with a refugee woman, and two heavily armed guards who stand about, looking rather distracted.

Well, this could get interesting. Carver _really_ hopes, however, that they’re not going to start a fight. It’s the last thing they need.

“I’ve already told you. I can’t give you anymore for them,” the balding man, likely Cavril, tells the refugee woman. He has, in Carver’s opinion, that smarmy sort of self-assured air that some of the merchants who came through Lothering had. The ones who tried to sell some fairly sketchy items of suspect origin.

Or, as their father had put it, snake-oil salesmen.

The woman’s shoulders sag and she jabs a finger at Cavril weakly, “But that was everything we had! It’s all we brought with us!”

“And I feel for you, serah, I truly do,” Cavril says, clasping her hand between his. His smile is oil-slick, “But it’s the best I can do.”

She yanks her hand back, as though burned, “If they just let us into the city, I could get three times your price!”

Cavril sighs, gestures with his head to one of his armed guards, “Myron?”

The guard, Myron, steps forward, arms crossed imposingly across his chest, “Your business is done.”

The woman looks like she’s about to argue, but she gives in with a sigh and wanders away, dejected, and likely more than a little bit poorer than she was before.

Cavril turns to Gareth, bright smile on his face as he clasps his hands together excitedly. He probably smells an easy deal, “Now then! What can I do for you, serah?”

“I believe that you owe your business partners something?” Gareth says, head tilted to the side.

“Oh, I see.” Cavril drops his hands and his smile, looking as though someone had just wafted something awful under his nose. Probably druffalo dung.

“Should I go tell the guards?” Myron asks, hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. His partner does the same.

Waving them off, Cavril says, “Not just yet. I want to hear this. So, Athenril sent you to collect, did she? Too cowardly to do it herself?”

Rather than respond to that, Gareth cocks his head to Aveline, “Care to step in here?”

“Only because this toad deserves it,” Aveline replies, rolling her shoulders. She withdrew a dagger from her belt, bringing it up in a quick, smooth move to with a hair’s breadth Cavril’s neck. “You have a choice: pay, or I beat it out of you and your men.”

“Hey!”

“Stay back!” Cavril snaps. He’s shaking, though, trying very hard not to move, to avoid accidentally slitting his own throat on Aveline’s dagger. “Just… take what’s in that chest. Take it all.”

Aveline lowers her blade, stepping aside to allow Cavril to hurry past her with his guards in tow.

Carver hears the man mutter as he does, “Let the guards find someone else to buy dog-land junk!”

The chest in question is small, sitting innocently on a wooden table. Gareth eases it open, revealing a small, leather pouch and an assortment of papers. The papers are of no consequence, so Gareth leaves those, but the pouch clinks with coins as he pulls it out.

“Thank you, Aveline,” Gareth says.

“It was nothing.”

Gareth smiles, “Now that we’ve gotten what we came for, we should report back to Athenril. Best to get this over with quickly.”

Unsurprisingly, Athenril is exactly where they left her. When she hears them approach, she looks over, a ghost of a grin on her face – as though she can’t believe that they’ve returned so quickly.

“Well?”

Gareth tosses her the pouch, which makes a clinking noise as it connects with Athenril’s palm, “Here you are. As requested.”

Athenril weighs the pouch, then tugs it open, glancing inside. When she looks up, she smiles and this time, it lacks that sharp edge to it. “Will you look at that… Tell your uncle we’ll make the arrangements. Welcome aboard.”

The deal is sealed with a clasp of forearms.

All that’s left is to tell Gamlen and their mother that their way into the city is being paid for. It’ll cost the both of them a year of their lives, but Carver thinks that’s a small voice to pay. True, they’ll have to start over, but at least they have work ahead of them.

It will keep them distracted, give them something to do. They won’t have to sit and stew about Bethany and all of the could-have-beens. This is a good thing. That’s what he keeps telling himself.

Leandra doesn’t look convinced when they return with the news.

“Athenril’s agreed to help us,” Gareth says.

“Good, good,” Gamlen says. “I’ll speak to her and see when the bribes can be made. Wait here.”

“I’m not sure about this…” Leandra murmurs.

“I guess we did it,” Carver says to Gareth. “We’re here to stay. For a while, at least.”

“The Blight might still spread, but for now… we have a new home,” Gareth agrees.

“If only Bethany were here with us…”

“And Wesley,” Aveline adds, quietly.

Carver thinks he might be the only one who notices the twitch of his brother’s shoulders going up, straightening. But, when he turns back, he’s smiling. Though it crinkles his eyes the way it always does, something about it feels… off. Carver can’t be sure why.

“Let’s just see what happens. We have a long year ahead of us.”


	3. a new day is dawning

_**One year later…** _

Despite having been in Kirkwall for a little over a year, Gareth still can’t shrug the wariness that dogs his every step. It was different in Lothering, where everyone knew everyone and they were a well-respected family that was part of an established community. The worry that someone would betray them to the templars – all of whom Gareth had been acquainted with, if distantly – was negligible at best.

Here, it’s different. Templars are a common sight, even in the Lowtown refugee quarters. And each morning brings news of another templar raid to ferret out apostates and maleficarum that might be hiding among those who fled the Blight.

Thus far, he’s been lucky to escape notice. But that doesn’t ease the fear that, any day, the templars _could_ come for him next. He’s been constantly glancing over his shoulder, taking care to only use his magic when absolutely necessary and, when he does, to make sure that it’s subtle. Their neighbours can’t be trusted; everyone is jumpy and anyone could possibly turn him in.

He hates living like this. The fear, the constant looking over his shoulder, and inability to help those around him. In Kirkwall’s Lowtown, it’s every man, woman, and child for themselves. The last healer they had – an old woman with extensive knowledge of herblore – was arrested under suspicion of being an apostate. No one has seen her since.

Making matters worse, Gareth’s been certain that Athenril might, after they parted on such sour terms, turn him into the templars purely out of spite. She wouldn’t, despite the way that they parted, because Athenril is many things, but she does have standards.

Morning dawns, bright and grey, as always. Gareth wakes from his light sleep, blinking and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he slowly sits up. The thin blanket falls around his waist, bearing his skin to the cool air, causing goosebumps to rise in its wake.

With a muffled yawn, Gareth carefully crawls out of the tiny, cramped bunk that he shares with Carver. His brother slumbers on, rolling into the empty warm spot that Gareth’s left. He smiles at the sight, before shrugging into his tunic and getting dressed for the day.

From the bunk above his and Carver’s, he can hear Gamlen snoring – sounding very much like a druffalo as he does. It’s a small miracle that their mother’s able to sleep through that, being in such close quarters to their uncle as she is.

Stretching once he’s out of the bunk, Gareth goes about his usual morning routine. He checks to see whether he’ll need to hurry out for a quick errand to buy anything for breakfast, but it looks like the bread is still good; the rats haven’t gotten to it yet. He splashes his face with cold water from the basin in the corner and checks his reflection in the tiny, chipped looking glass above it.

His father’s face looks back at him.

It’s not quite right. His face is leaner than his father’s, with more prominent cheekbones that his mother says are hereditary to the Amells. And it’s hard to miss the deep red birthmark that streaks across his nose and cheek. But he does share his father’s eyes – a molten, warm amber – that’s difficult to miss. His mother has always complimented him for how much he takes after their father.

All he has in common with Carver is their hair, the same deep, shade of black that all three of them had. Carver has their mother’s bright blue eyes and her pale, lightly freckled skin. Bethany had taken after Gareth and their father.

He cuts the thought off there. He will not think of Bethany.

Despite the year that’s passed since her death, the memory of her is still raw. Maybe one day he’ll be able to talk about her without a lump forming in his throat, but not today. She didn’t deserve what happened to her. He could have done _something_. Their mother was right: It was his fault.

To distract himself from the melancholy turn his thoughts have taken, Gareth begins prepping breakfast. He and Carver have a long day ahead of them. With an expedition to the Deep Roads happening, it’s their chance to make it big. All they need to do is find the dwarf organizing it and convince him to hire them on. For that, they’ll need all the energy they can get.

They need to leave Lowtown. This is their first, best, and perhaps _only_ chance of managing that. Their mother is only _now_ starting to come out of her grief of Bethany’s death and the loss of their home in Lothering. Not to mention, all that she had left of their father.

Speaking of their mother, Leandra is the next to wake and it’s she who wakes Carver, before she comes to help Gareth with breakfast. The three of them leave Gamlen to snore on, knowing better than to wake him.

Carver yawns, jaw cracking, “You’re sure about this?”

“I am. We haven’t had any other good leads, making this our best chance,” Gareth replies, dusting the crumbs from his hands. “Besides, we’ve heard about it for _weeks_ now; it has to be legit.”

“That Deep Roads expedition? I don’t know…” Leandra says softly. Her eyes stare off, unfocused, at the wall. “It would be dangerous. Must you?”

“The templars’ll come sniffing him out eventually,” Carver says, jerking his head in Gareth’s direction. “Then we’ll be thrown straight into the Gallows along with him. That’s _if_ we’re not thrown in jail or executed for harbouring an apostate.”

“Carver! You know your brother’s not–”

Gareth sighs, cutting into the argument he knows is about to begin, “Carver’s right, mother. We need something – influence or money – to protect us. Without it, we’re just another couple of refugees.”

“I know. It’s just…” Leandra sighs. Her smile, when she looks up at the two of them, wavers at its edges, “Look after each other, please? And come home safely.”

Gareth smiles, bends down, and kisses his mother’s cheek, “Always.”

Their mother shoos them out, telling them that she’ll take care of the clean-up from breakfast and making sure that Gamlen has _something_ to eat at least that’s not ale.

Kirkwall in the early morning hours is covered with mist, that clings to the ground and parts about people’s ankles as they pass through it. The sun’s barely crested over the horizon, casting all the buildings that tower over them into hazy silhouettes. Lowtown is quiet, but it’ll only be another hour or less till people awaken to go about their daily lives, flock to what jobs they have, and for the marketplace to begin buzzing with life.

For now, however, the air is still and the streets ring with silence. The only sounds that Gareth can hear are the soft crunch of his and Carver’s footsteps on the worn, gravel strewn roads. Occasionally, another person passes by, but they’re a rare sight.

The pair of them take the winding, circuitous route that leads from Kirkwall’s Lowtown to Hightown, located farther up the hill that Kirkwall was built on. Leaving behind the familiar, well-trod streets of Lowtown, leads them into the silence of Hightown. In comparison to Lowtown, Hightown is a ghost town; it’s far too early for the well-to-do and wealthy citizens of the city to be out and about yet.

“Where are we supposed to find this man?” Carver asks. He rubs his hands together, the air at this time of a day more than a little nippy.

“He’s a dwarf by the name of Bartrand Tethras,” Gareth replies, leading Carver through the streets of Hightown. “And according to the woman I spoke with, he should be in the Merchants Guild this morning. Hopefully, if we catch him early enough in the day, he’ll be more willing to hear us out.”

“And hire us.”

“That too.”

There’s little to see or do while they wait for the city to come to life. Honestly, Gareth realizes as his knees stiffen from standing still too long, they likely could have slept in a little more and been fine. Or stopped at the Hanged Man to waste away a few hours and had a breakfast of questionable origin.

However, their patience eventually pays off. Late into the morning, he spots a grumpy looking dwarf that matches the description he was given of Bartrand.

Gareth nudges Carver with his elbow, nearly sending his dozing little brother sprawling, “There he is.”

“ _That’s_ him? He doesn’t look like much of an explorer.”

“Well, that’s what _we’re_ for, isn’t it?”

“Guess so.”

Carver is right about Bartrand, however. The dwarf looks absolutely nothing like the man spearheading an expedition to the Deep Roads. With his fine clothes and neatly trimmed beard, he looks the part of a wealthy, well-to-do merchant dwarf who would be more comfortable behind a desk and stack of papers, than darkspawn-infested tunnels.

Still, he’s the one that they need to convince to hire them onto his expedition. Whatever they might found down there will buy their way out of Lowtown and to safety.

Carver falls into step easily with his brother as they cross the large, sweeping courtyard towards where Bartrand is in deep conversation with another dwarf. With a slight tip of his head, Gareth indicates to Carver that they’ll wait for Bartrand to finish his business before they talk to him. It’s the polite thing to do, after all.

Bartrand’s face, when he turns to see them, look as though he’s permanently bitten into a lemon.

“What do _you_ want, human? And whatever it is, better not be a waste of my time.”

“We heard that you’re launching an expedition to the Deep Roads,” Gareth begins. “Since you’ll need guards, we–”

“No!” Bartrand snaps, turning on his heel and beginning to storm off. “Andraste’s tits, human! You know how many people want to sign onto this expedition?!”

Gareth shares an alarmed look with his brother, before the two of them hurry to keep up with Bartrand. They have one chance and it looks like they’re going to blow it.

“Look,” Carver says. “We know you’re going into the Deep Roads. You’ll need to hire the best and we’re–”

Bartrand halts, whirling around and jabbing one stout finger at them, “No! You’re too late! Already done!”

“The money from this trip could fix everything! You _need_ us!” Carver’s getting exasperated now, voice rising as he talks, “We’ve fought darkspawn before!”

Bartrand looks like he’s going to laugh right in their faces, “Look, precious. I don’t care if you tore the horns off an ogre with your bare hands. The answer is the same: No.”

“You make him understand! We’re running from _your_ bloody templars!” Carver crosses his arms, a truly impressive scowl on his face.

“I know how you feel,” Gareth sighs, makes to lay a comforting hand on Carver’s shoulder but his brother shrugs it off roughly. “But we’ll earn no favours with your fist in his face.”

Carver’s scowl deepens, “Then we do nothing, as _always_.”

Turning back to Bartrand, Gareth tries for his best smile, “My brother can be hotheaded, but we _do_ have the skills to benefit your expedition.”

“You’re looking for a quick way out of the slums, right? You and every other Fereldan in this dump,” Bartrand gives them a once-over, mouth twisting into a savage smile. “Find another meal ticket.”

And, with that, Bartrand storms off, leaving the two of them standing there looking confused and more than a little dejected. There went their only chance.

“Well,” Carver says, at last. “Back to waiting for someone to turn us in then.”

“Do you have any other ideas? Because I’m listening, Carver.”

Carver cocks his head to the side, then sighs, “Gamlen? I mean, he’s got a head for this sort of garbage, doesn’t he? Maybe he can talk to Bartrand? He knows some people. It’s gotta be worth a try, right? After last week, we need all the influence and coin we can get.”

Gareth hums to himself softly. Their uncle’s about as useful as a hunk of druffalo dung. He doesn’t work and spends most of his days gambling, drinking, or playing cards down at the Hanged Man. Or visiting the Rose. Neither he nor Gareth talk about that, though.

However, Gamlen _did_ successfully get them into Kirkwall. One year of indentured servitude later and they’re free. It was a steep price and while it was worth it at the time, Gareth’s not too sure what the cost of their uncle’s help might be this time. Still, they don’t have any other options.

“It’s worth asking. He _did_ get us into Kirkwall, after all.”

“Right, and we both know how _that_ turned out…”

Leaving the Merchants Guild behind them, the two of them begin to make their way back towards Lowtown. If they’re lucky, they’ll be able to catch Gamlen before he leaves for wherever it is that he spends his days.

Someone thumps into Gareth’s back, pushing past him and nearly elbowing Carver in the face. Gareth’s about to pass it off as someone in a hurry when he pats his belt and realizes–

“Hey!”

He’s just been robbed.

He can see the pickpocket making a run for the narrow street that’ll lead him into Hightown’s marketplace. Gareth moves to give chase, knowing that the moment that the thief slips into the crowds there that he’ll lose him and not see the contents of his coin purse again.

Two things happen at once.

First, Gareth hears the twang of a bow.

Second, the thief slams into the wall. A bolt pinning his shirt to the stone.

“I knew a guy who could take every coin out of your pockets just by smiling at you.” From the small alcove of a doorway, strolls another dwarf. His blond hair is slicked back into a ponytail and he shoulders a massive crossbow, the likes of which Gareth’s never seen before. “But you? You don’t have the style to work Hightown, let alone the Merchants Guild.”

The dwarf holds out his hand and the pickpocket grudgingly surrenders his pilfered goods. With a charming smile, the dwarf pulls the bolt out of the thief’s shirt easily right before he socks him one in the jaw.

With a little twirl of the bolt before he replaces it in his quiver, the dwarf gives a little bow to the both of them as he tosses Gareth’s coin purse back to him, “Varric Tethras, at your service. No need for introductions, I know who the both of you are. The name ‘Hawke’ is on many lips these days. Not bad for a Fereldan fresh off the boat.”

Gareth’s got no idea what to say. He’s pretty sure that he might just be gaping like a fish out of water.

Varric continues on, “I apologize for Bartrand. He wouldn’t know an opportunity if it hit him square in the jaw.”

“But you would?” Gareth asks, a little surprised to hear himself speak.

“I would!” Varric says, grinning. “What my brother doesn’t realize is that we need someone like you. He would never admit it either – he’s too proud. I, however, am quite practical.”

Gareth quirks a brow up, “What makes you so certain we can help? Aside from our reputation.”

“As I said, you’ve made quite a name for yourself over the last year. The Coterie has been squeezing smugglers out left and right, and the only group to survive owes it all to you two,” Varric explains. Then, leaning towards them and lowering his voice, “Besides, we don’t need another hireling – we need a _partner_. The truth is, Bartrand’s been tearing his beard out trying to fund this on his own, but he can’t. Invest in the expedition. Fifty sovereigns, and he can’t refuse. Not with me there to vouch for you.”

He tries very hard not to wince when he hears the price, “It sounds interesting – but if I had any gold, I wouldn’t need this job.”

“You need to think big! There’s only a brief window after a Blight when the Deep Roads won’t be crawling with darkspawn. The treasure you find down there could set you and your family up for life!”

Carver kicks the back of his boot, “Come on, the dwarf makes some sense. No offense.” With a sigh, Carver adds, “Look, you started this – and it’s a good idea. Certainly better than ending up in the Gallows.”

There’s a thread of pleading in Varric’s voice as he says, “We work together, you and I, and before you know it, you’ll have all the capital you need. What do you say?”

He weighs the decision. Not knowing Varric well weighs heavily on him, but Gareth’s tired of doubting everyone that he meets. And, if he’s honest, he’s getting more than a little tired of having no company but his surly little brother.

So, he takes Varric’s hand and shakes it. The dwarf has a very firm grip.

“You have yourself a partner,” Gareth says.

“Excellent! Kirkwall’s full of opportunities – all you need to do is set a little aside and you’ll have the funds in no time!”

Gareth’s not so convinced about that, not when his uncle has a tendency to go through his mail to check if there’s any coins in the envelopes. Or the frequency with which Gareth’s expected to settle his uncle’s debts, either through working them off as he did for Athenril or giving up whatever little coin he has on him. He rather suspects that any money he does earn for this venture will go straight back into paying for Gamlen’s expensive hobbies.

Carver, who has been staring thoughtfully into the distance for the past few minutes, blinks, and then says, “Maybe Aveline’s got some bounties out. She did join the city guard, after all.”

“It’s worth a look,” Gareth says. “Besides, we should check on her. See how she’s settling in at the Keep.”

“Worrywart,” Carver mutters.

Gareth ignores that barb. He misses Aveline, despite her tendency to… hover over them. It was something to be expected after everything that they’d been through. And everyone that they had lost.

“You’ve got a Fereldan friend in the guard?” Varric asks, falling into easy step with Gareth despite the latter’s longer legs and stride.

“Aveline, yes,” Gareth replies. “We traveled with her – from Lothering.”

“There’s a story there. You’ll have to tell me sometime – maybe over a drink at the Hanged Man?” Varric’s eyes have a glint in them, “Don’t worry about the cost; I’ll make sure to put you on my tab.”

Gareth chuckles, “You got yourself a deal.”

Conversation as they make their way to the Keep remains light, and Varric manages to cajole a story or two out of Gareth of some of their escapades while working for Athenril. With each one, Carver’s scowl grows deeper and deeper and he falls further and further behind the two of them.

“... and then he looked at the goat and said, ‘We’re not going to talk about this.’ And stormed off,” Gareth finishes, between laughs. He’d given up trying to fight the laughter early on.

Varric’s been roaring with laughter since the story of what Gareth has come to term as the Goathouse Story. He’s grinning so hard that his face must hurt, “You know what, Junior, I was wrong about you. You’ve got the making of a real comedian behind that scowl of yours.”

With his pink ears, Carver’s tone loses some of its acid, “Shut up.”

When they enter the Keep, Varric sobers up, though he keeps that grin of his on his face that Gareth’s fairly certain is just his default expression. Instead, he makes a smart remark about how one knows that the Keep is the most important place in Kirkwall because everyone looks like they’ve just eaten a lemon.

“Bartrand must blend right in, then,” Gareth remarks.

Varric snorts, “You’d be right, but he’d rather be dead than come here. You can probably tell, but he’s too full of Dwarven Pride to step foot in such a ‘surfacer’ place.”

“You’re from Orzammar, Varric?”

“Nah, Kirkwall born and raised,” Varric replies breezily. “Bartrand, though, he was born in the city and still remembers it too. It’s hard to miss or know something you never knew.”

Gareth’s not sure what to say to that, so he stays quiet.

The Viscount’s Keep is the heart and centre of Kirkwall’s administration, a given since it’s the seat of the viscount. Although, Gareth’s been in Kirkwall long enough to know that the _real_ seat of power is located in the Gallows under the rarely seen Knight-Commander Meredith. If he hadn’t believed it when they first arrived, Gareth believes it now; it’s impossible to ignore the always present threat of the templars.

Coming to visit Aveline is new. For the first two months that they lived in Kirkwall, it was all five of them crammed into Gamlen’s small apartment in Lowtown. When Aveline managed to get a position in the city guard, she’d moved into the barracks in the Keep.

He’d only visited her once before and it been nothing more than an exercise in frustration. Waiting for her to finish her patrol had been the easy part, enduring the whispers from her fellow guardsmen and even outright mockery from some of them had been the hard part. He’d gotten through it by focusing on the techniques his father had taught him for channeling his magic.

Today, however, he’s in luck. Aveline’s not out for patrol.

Rather, she’s inspecting an assortment of papers nailed up to a column in the centre of the barracks common area. The same one that he waited in for hours last time he visited.

“Aveline!”

She doesn’t even turn around. Just keeps looking through one stack of papers that’s nailed to the wall. When her greeting comes, it’s a distracted, “Hello, Hawke.”

He doesn’t flinch, though his tone is stilted as he says, “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

“What?” Aveline _finally_ looks away from the papers she’s been so diligently reading, looking to where Gareth is standing a little behind her. She turns to face him, a spot of colour high in her cheeks, “Sorry, it feels like we just talked. I’ve been keeping an eye on you. Information’s one of the few perks of this job. Watch out for Bartrand – he’s a son of a bitch.”

“Well,” Varric mutters under his breath. “She’s not wrong on that one. Sorry, mother.”

Gareth frowns, “You know I don’t like it when you have people watching me.”

“Saved me camping on your doorstep,” Aveline says with a small smile. “After what we went through to get here, I…” Her breathing hitches and her smile slips. Then she takes a deep breath, and diverts that train of thought, “Well, you’re no child, but I take care of my friends. The places that they have me patrolling. I have time.”

“You’re still having trouble?” Gareth’s very much aware of the prejudices within the city’s walls; he’s been victim to them more times than he can count. It shouldn’t surprise him, really, but it’s Aveline and so it does. “I thought you’d gotten past all that.”

Aveline sighs, “Lately, I don’t know. I’ve been pushed out to some dead patrols. Maybe I stepped on someone’s toes?”

“You can be… forceful.” And _that’s_ putting it mildly, he thinks.

“My charm, right?” Aveline says, with a wry smile. “I should be able to go where I’m needed…”

Carver clears his throat, “You need anything, Aveline? Any bounties up?”

She blinks, thoughtful for a moment, then says, “Actually… now that you mention it, I might have something for you. You up for doing a favour for Kirkwall?”

“You have something worth doing?” Gareth asks, interest perked.

“My patrols might be empty walks in the dark, but there’s something big coming up and I could use you.” She drops her voice, gestures with her head that they should take a walk, “An ambush. Probably for a caravan, although I can’t find any shipments that match up.”

“Smugglers, most likely.”

“Doesn’t matter. Highwaymen waiting for someone to rob? I’m putting a stop to it; my distract or not.”

“You’ve got yourself a partner, Aveline,” Gareth says.

Aveline smiles, bright and relieved, almost, “I knew I could count on you.”

“All you have to do is ask. You know that,” Gareth reminds her gently. “What else have you heard about this ambush?”

“They’re hidden up Sundermount. Remote and rough, but we can make good time with a short cut I know of.” There’s a vivency in her that was absent the last time that Gareth saw her; clearly, she’s energized at the thought of action and justice being done. There’s a mystery afoot and they’re going to solve it.

Aveline gives him, Carver, and Varric a stern look over before they leave the Keep, “You’ll be acting on behalf of the guard. I expect all of you to be on your best behaviour.”

“You wound me, madame,” Varric says, planting a hand over his heart. “I’m always the perfect gentleman. In public, at least.”

Aveline looks to Gareth, eyebrows raised, “And this is?”

“Varric, Aveline. Aveline, Varric.”

She nods to Varric, “A pleasure.”

“Oh no, the pleasure's all mine…”

“Don’t push your luck, Varric.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Before they leave for Sundermount, they’ll need supplies for an overnight trip. Aveline easily supplies those, requisitioning them from the barracks. A quick glance at the sun tells Gareth that, so long as they make good time now, they should be able to reach the ambush site that Aveline indicated on the map by late evening.

It’ll be a long, hard push, but it’s nothing that they’re not used to.

As they’re leaving Hightown, someone calls out.

“Hawke! That you?”

Gareth smiles at the call of his name, turning automatically to face the source of the greeting, “Worthy! I thought you’d left for Orzammar.”

Worthy, a stocky, slightly rotund dwarf, with brown hair and a face heavily creased with wrinkles, grins, “I was, but turns out that Orzammar’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Now, what about you? You aren’t still working for Athenril, are you? Your year’s gotta be up by now.”

“I’m looking to become an explorer – of a sort – actually,” Gareth says.

“Bartrand, right? Heard about that. He’s an ass, but his information’s usually good,” Worthy twirls a loose bit of his beard between his fingers. “Listen, I’ve still got my contacts. You need any runecrafting done, you let me know.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Worthy.”

“It’s nothing. You always were good for business.”

The rest of their trip through the city is without incident. It’s proving to be another warm, humid day and it doesn’t take long for the lot of them to work up a good sweat. The shortcut that Aveline’s got them using is little more than a game track, and it’s riddled with loose rocks and roots that just wait to cause a rolled or fractured ankle.

As a matter of that, they have to stop halfway up when Varric’s ankle rolls out on a loose rock. He tumbles backwards and it’s only that Carver was behind him, bringing up the rear, that stops him from taking one long rolling fall down the entirety of the track.

“Shit! Thanks Junior, I owe you one.”

Carver steadies Varric with hands under his shoulders, “C’mon. There’s a stump up there you can sit on while Gareth takes a look. It shouldn’t take long, should it?”

“I won’t know till I take a look,” Gareth shrugs. “Even if it’s serious, it shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”

Varric’s grimacing with pain, “Pretty sure I didn’t break it…”

For his part, Varric doesn’t complain that Carver practically carries him to the stump and sits him on it. He also makes not a sound of pain when Gareth carefully removes both his boot and sock, to look at the ankle underneath.

The joint in question is an angry red, already starting to swell just a little, and Gareth prods it gently with his fingers. His fingers are flush with magic, a feeling only he knows, and it’s a pleasant, tingly sort of warmth as he examines Varric’s ankle.

“It’s just a bad twist – maybe a sprain,” Gareth says, at last. “That’s good news. It means I don’t have to force any bones back into place.”

“You can do that?” Varric says, trying to not blanch visibly.

Gareth smiles at him, “I’m a healer. Don’t worry, I know exactly what I’m doing.”

His hands warm, lighting up with that familiar white glow that comes whenever he uses his gift. He’s aware that his eyes must have taken on that glow that they do when he heals, because Varric makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like an oath. Gareth feels hands, ghostly ones that only he can see and see them faintly, laying over his, and with a final pulse of white light, it’s done.

“There,” Gareth says, pulling his hands back. “Good as new. No pain?”

The redness is already receding, the swelling has vanished completely, and Varric stares on in what can only be described as close to _wonder_ as he flexes his foot and ankle.

“Damn, you’re a miracle worker,” Varric comments, pulling his sock back on.

“It’s what I do. Let me know if there’s anything else – pain or discomfort – and I’ll take another look. I know sometimes that there can be… complications.”

There are things he can’t heal. Gareth knows this now. It’s a lesson that he learned and he learned it the hard way. He couldn’t cure Wesley of the taint. He couldn’t save Bethany. His ability to work miracles, as they say, only goes so far.

There is no magic in all the world and the Fade that can cure death.

He closes his eyes and breathes deeply through his nose. He can’t lose focus now. They have a job to do and Aveline is counting on him.

Later, he tells himself. Later is when he can let himself fall apart, if only for a little while.

The rest of the hike up the steep incline is uneventful, but arduous. It’s later in the evening than originally presumed when they find a small clearing on a rocky outcrop to make camp for the night. According to the information that Aveline has, whatever caravan is slated to pass through here will be in the early morning hours. They’ll rest for the night here and surprise the ambush party in the morning.

“First watch will be mine,” Aveline says, over dinner.

They have a small fire going, courtesy of Carver, which is serves the dual purpose of providing warmth and hopefully keeping any animals at bay.

“I’ll take second,” Carver volunteers.

“I guess that leaves me with the last one, then,” Gareth says.

“And none for the dwarf?”

Aveline shrugs, “We wouldn’t want to infringe on your much needed beauty sleep.”

“Hey!”

Gareth snorts and even Carver looks like he’s trying not to laugh. The atmosphere around the fire is comfortable, friendly, and Gareth can see this becoming a common occurrence in the future. Varric’s presence is soothing, talk flows freely with him around, and he has a large repertoire of stories to tell.

On the note of stories and Varric, once dinner’s finished and cleared away, he launches into one.

“No shit, there I was…”

It’s easy to drift off to the sound of Varric’s voice. Easy to forget, for a few moments at least, all the weight that’s on his shoulders. His head drops to Carver’s shoulder, eyes slowly drooping closed, and all too soon, he’s lost to the world of waking.

 

 

 

 

He jerks away hours later, Bethany’s name on his lips.

Her blank, sightless eyes staring at him. That’s the memory he brings with him. For only a moment, he’s back there, on that ridge outside of Lothering, with his sister’s body in his arms and it’s _all his fault_.

But that fades quickly, replaced with the campsite on a ridge on Sundermount.

Gareth’s not sure what woke him, but he can hear Varric’s soft snores from nearby. Carver’s gone from where he remembers him being at his side, but Aveline has taken up his place. She leans back against the tree, head pillowed on her pack, and breathing deeply.

It’s a welcome sight, and Gareth releases the breath he was holding in a whoosh of air.

He isn’t sure of the hour, but it’s clearly late. Maybe edging into the early morning hours. It doesn’t matter. He won’t be getting anymore sleep tonight.

Settling back against the tree, he holds up a trembling hand. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, and focuses his mind’s eye on the fire. Remembers its texture, the way that it’s light wavers, brightens, all of the colours mixed into it.

When he opens his eyes, there’s a small ball of flickering blue-green fire in his hands.

The actual fire has burned dangerously low, to nothing more than smouldering coals. Cupping his hands around his handful of veilfire, he rolls forward into a crouch and lowers it into the remnants of the fire. With a little nudge and push from his magic, it grows into a roaring silent inferno of green flames. It’s a poor replacement for an actual fire – since veilfire holds no heat – but it requires no fuel to burn and the light it gives off is more than enough to see by.

Even with its light, everything looks cold when lit by veilfire. It gives everything a strange, green hue that makes the skin of his hands look pale and sickly.

He forces back more thoughts of Bethany.

But he can’t force them all back. Not now. Not in the dark of night with only himself for company.

Carver is a ways off, perched on a boulder at the edge of their little clearing to keep watch. If he wanted, Gareth could go and join him, maybe relieve him of his watch early, but that wouldn’t go over well. His younger brother’s become more and more prickly as the days have passed. Carver would resent him implying that he’s not capable enough to keep a full watch.

Which leaves him there, staring into the flickering green veilfire, with nothing but his thoughts for company.

Drawing his knees to his chest, Gareth wraps his arms around them. The ground under him is cool and hard, but his rear’s already gone numb from it. He misses Bethany; he misses her easy company and soothing presence. If Bethany were here, they would have a roaring fire in front of them to keep the chill of the night at bay, not the pale imitation of one that he’s conjured.

Magical talent is not measured in destructive power. Gareth knows that. He had always struggled with the more ‘traditional’ schools of magic that came easily to his father and sister. Bethany had taken after their father, proving herself to be an incredibly capable mage. She spent hours at a time with Malcolm, learning to master her control over the elements.

Recalling their lessons with their father, Gareth knows well that he’s an outlier – a rarity. He could barely summon a flame in his hand, while Bethany could conjure a raging inferno. But while Bethany struggled to seal a single scratch, he could easily heal a wolf’s bite perfectly. His father had known what Gareth was since his magic had awakened when he was five.

It had presented so early. Gareth remembers how terrified his parents had been, how they’d had to leave their home behind, eventually resettling near Lothering. The single act of healing a man who had stumbled into their home after being set upon by bandits had nearly killed him. After that, his training had begun in full.

Spirit healers, as he learned from his father, aren’t common. His father had never known one, only knew the rudimentary basics of the school of magic of creation – the one to which spirit healing belonged – and so could only instruct Gareth on control. He had to be careful, push himself too far to save someone, and he could lose himself in the process.

_“Your connection to the Fade goes much deeper than mine,”_ their father said one night. _“You must be careful and wary of what you encounter there_.”

But the Fade has never felt threatening to him. When he wakes there in his dreams, he feels safe. He’s quite sure that he can see ghostly arms wrapped around him there, but when he turns, there’s no one there. But that feeling of safety, of warmth and love, is always there.

Gareth’s not entirely sure what it means, but he feels that same… presence, for lack of a better word, whenever he heals. It’s a little like something – or someone – is reaching through him to help.

Sometimes that presence is stronger. The more dire the wound, the stronger it becomes. The first time that he’d used magic, he thought he’d heard a voice. In the years after, he’d become convinced that it was just the overhyped imagination of a child, but these days he isn’t so sure.

He misses his father’s guidance. The assuredness that was inherent in his presence. Their father always knew what to do, how to handle any situation. It’s his shoes that Gareth has to fill, and he doesn’t know if he’s doing it right at all. Most of the time, he feels as though he’s drowning. Magic always seemed less mysterious, less unknown, when his father spoke of it.

Gareth sighs and gives himself a quick, mental shake. He can wonder all he wants about the mysteries of magic. He knows who and what he is: a spirit healer. That’s enough. He doesn’t need anything else.

He sits there, curled up on himself, till his brother comes to have him relieve him of the watch.

His legs are cramped from the position, but he doesn’t fall when he stands. Pricks and pins radiate down his legs, an uncomfortable sensation, but it begins to fade as he makes his way towards the boulder on the edge of their campsite. From there, he has an excellent vantage point both into the narrow pass below and of his companions.

Summoning more veilfire, this time little more than a wisp, he sends it floating absently about his head. It won’t do damage, but it can certainly startle someone – or something – if launched towards them at speed.

The night passes without incident. The dawn comes in, grey and colder than in Kirkwall due to their higher elevation on Sundermount. Fog condenses about the ground, moving in little eddies as they each move through them.

“That is some weird shit,” Varric comments, jerking his head towards the fire as they eat a quick, cold breakfast.

“It’s veilfire.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s harmless,” Gareth says. He demonstrates by sticking his hand directly into it, which earns him something close to a panicked noise from Varric, and pulls it out. His hand is, of course, completely unharmed. “Veilfire doesn’t give off heat or consume fuel. Think of it… like a memory of fire.”

“Huh. Like I said, weird shit.”

After breakfast, Gareth douses the veilfire with a gesture of his hand. Varric makes another muttered comment, but he ignores it. It’s still strange to work magic in front of people who aren’t members of his family.

They have to slowly and carefully pick their way down the slope towards the narrow pass below. But before they come close to losing the high ground, Gareth sees no caravan in the distance. In fact, he sees not a single other living soul besides the four of them.

_Suspicious_.

Varric’s the one who spots the trip lines about halfway down the packed dirt road.

“You sure this is all for a caravan?” Varric asks, crouched down to disarm the trap.

“Smugglers, most likely,” Aveline says, keeping an eye on the path. “But it’s strange… there’s been no sign of any caravan at all…”

Carver drops down from a tree, “There’s a band of about six men up ahead. Bandits, it looks like.”

“There’s our ambush party.” Aveline taps her fingers against the hilt of her sword, “They haven’t spotted us yet?”

Varric stands, rolling his shoulders back, “My guess is that they’re waiting on the trap. Spring it, there’s an explosion. That way, they know that whoever it is they’re after’s on their way.”

“How far ahead are the bandits?” Gareth asks.

“Just around the curve up ahead – probably no more than about a hundred, maybe a hundred-fifty, paces.”

There’s a very narrow ledge to the left of them. It’ll be dangerous but…

“Varric, think you can manage that ledge there?”

Craning his head back, Varric nods, “Have I mentioned that I don’t like heights? Because I don’t.”

“Aveline will take point, with Carver providing back-up. Varric, your job is to provide cover fire. See if you can take any of them out before they notice us. And I’ll bring up the rear – just in case they’re hiding any reinforcements.”

“Right.”

The three of them wait till Varric’s in position. Aveline unsheathes her sword and adjusts her shield – _Wesley’s_ shield, Gareth reminds himself – and Carver rolls his shoulders, great sword in hand. Gareth checks the blade on his stave. At the signal, they charge.

It’s a short, brutal, messy fight.

The path is too narrow to properly maneuver, meaning that they pin the bandits easily. With Carver and Aveline on point and Varric providing a barrage of cover fire from his elevated position, it’s over quickly. He sees absolutely no action.

Though, he does have to seal up a scratch on Carver’s forehead and check Aveline’s shield arm after she took a particularly hard knock. None of it’s serious, but Gareth’s happy to be of help.

Varric skids down from his vantage point on the ledge, moving to recover what bolts he can from the aftermath, “Well-equipped for bandits, aren’t they?”

Aveline shrugs, “Dead is dead and the road is clear. We’ll need to return to the barracks to inform Captain Jeven. And for your just reward.”

If Gareth thinks about it, the entire situation is rather anti-climatic. He would have thought that there would be more men or some sign of a camp, but there’s nothing. Adding onto that, the lack of an actual caravan makes him wary. Perhaps it’s just his paranoia getting the best of him.

What matters is that they’ve cleared the road of bandits and made it safe to travel once more. He doesn’t think more of how odd the place is for a caravan to be passing through.

The trip back into Kirkwall is as uneventful as the one out had been. Only this time, no one slips on any loose footings. Mostly because they don’t take the same game trail shortcut that they took up; this time, they’re able to use the actual winding, dirt path that leads back into the city.

Still, it’s mid-afternoon when they arrive back in Kirkwall. They pass through straight into Hightown and make towards the Keep.

He’s not sure what the protocol is for citizens aiding the city guard, but he trusts that Aveline knows what she’s doing. They re-enter the barracks, which are quite empty for the time of day. Though, on closer listen, he can hear rowdy conversation coming from the mess hall. Lunch time, then.

Aveline stops outside of one of the doors, “Here’s Jeven’s office. Wait while I explain our initiative.”

She knocks on the door, waits, and only enters when a man’s voice yells, “Enter!”

The door closes behind her with a click.

Leaning back against the wall, Gareth waits. Carver takes a seat beside Varric on the stairs, leaning back as Varric launches into another story.

At least everyone’s getting along.

He’s jerked out of his idle thoughts by muffled yelling, coming from Jeven’s office.

“I don’t know how they do it where you’re from, guardswoman, but _I_ decide the patrols, not you and your whims! You might have been put up for lieutenant in your first year, but I’ll have no show-offs in my command! Have I made myself clear?!” There’s a pause, then, “Report to your post! Before I have you _and_ your Fereldan accomplice jailed!”

Aveline stumbles out of the office, looking flustered and confused. The door slams closed behind her.

Gareth blinks, “That was a lot of yelling for doing him a favour.”

Turning to him, Aveline frowns, “We killed a band of highwaymen. What does it matter whose patrol it was?” She sighs, glancing away, “It’s not the first time he’s made me wonder like this… something is wrong.”

“So, why don’t we find out _who’s_ toes we stepped on?”

Aveline points towards the paper covered column, “We’ll need to check the duty roster, then. Find out who’s patrol that was.”

He and Aveline only manage to make it to the column, before they’re approached by another guard, “Aveline!”

The guardswoman who approaches is slightly shorter than Aveline, with close-cropped auburn hair. She’s smiling, clearly relieved, as she addresses Aveline, “I owe you for clearing out that ambush. Saved me a mess of trouble!”

“Brennan,” Aveline says, surprised. “That was your route?”

The guardswoman, Brennan, nods, “It was. Single patrol. I’d have been dead for sure.”

“There wasn’t anything unusual about it?” Gareth asks.

“It had been clear for weeks. It didn’t get unusual until after we heard about you and Aveline,” Brennan shrugs. “The Captain reassigned me after he heard what you did and I passed the satchel on to Donnic for his patrol tonight.”

“The satchel?”

“Pay and order assignments. Captain has us run deliveries to the outposts during light duty. It’s usually just an updated copy of the roster.” A thoughtful look steals across Brennan’s face for a moment, and she muses, “The satchel for that night was heavy though...”

Brennan snaps herself out of it, smiling at Aveline, “Anyway, thanks again, Aveline. You’re a good one.”

Gareth’s quite sure that his eyebrows are in his hairline. Just what have they stumbled into now?

“So the satchel gets heavy the same day we discover an ambush,” Aveline says. She reaches for the roster.

“Messy way to pass information,” Gareth adds. “And Brennan’s already sent it along.”

“And another guard is walking into the same trap. I can’t let that happen.” Aveline nods, flipping through the roster, “Donnic… a good man, Donnic... Donnic. I’ve got his route. A night walk in Lowtown. Let’s make sure his quiet patrol _stays_ quiet.”

“Will you be coming around for dinner, then?” Gareth asks.

“Not tonight, no. Perhaps another time? I’ll meet you outside the Hanged Man, just after sundown.”

“I’ll see you there.”

 

Leaving Aveline behind, Gareth gestures to Varric and Carver that they’re going.

“So, Hawke, what’s the plan? I sense that there’s intrigue afoot.”

“You would say that,” Carver mutters.

“We’ll be meeting with Aveline tonight, after sundown outside of the Hanged Man,” Gareth replies. “Until then, I think Carver and I had better go home and make sure that mother and Gamlen haven’t started squabbling again.”

“They only argue because mother won’t leave the house. She’s been – well, mourning for the last year. You know how she’s been.”

“... I know.”

“Well, I think I’ll leave the family drama to the two of you,” Varric says. “If you need me, I’ll be in my room in the Hanged Man. And remember, Hawke, you owe me a story and I owe you a drink.”

They part ways in front of the Hanged Man. When Varric opens the door to go in, they hear a shout of his name from the bartender and a rush of talk, music, and laughter. Then, it closes with a heavy thud.

It’s not a long walk from the Hanged Man to Gamlen’s small apartment, which is located on the third floor of an entire series of them. Though it’s small and cramped for four adults, it’s at least not on the lowest level which, as Gareth knows from eavesdropping, leaks something terrible and is constantly smelling like a privy.

“… hard to believe they left me nothing!”

Cracking open the door, it turns out that Gareth’s right. They’ve walked in on the tail end of yet another argument between their mother and uncle.

“Well, mother was pretty steamed when you ran off with your Fereldan apostate!” Gamlen snaps.

“I’m still their daughter! Their eldest!”

The argument comes to a screeching halt when Gareth and Carver enter the small apartment. Gamlen takes one look at them before throwing his hands up into the air.

“That’s it! I’ve had enough! I’ll be back once you’ve calmed down!”

And with that, their uncle storms out of the house. Likely heading for the Hanged Man and his favourite stool therein.

Leandra’s shoulders sag, “I’m sorry, I didn’t–”

“It’s alright, mother,” Gareth soothes, stroking her shoulder gently.

“I just worry about the two of you,” she continues. “With the templars and your work… I can’t bear the thought of losing you – either of you. Not after – after Bethany.”

“I know,” Gareth says, quietly. He pulls his mother close, tucking her against him and ignores the pang of loss and guilt in his chest. “We miss her too.”

“I keep thinking back to that day. That I could have done something.”

He squeezes her tighter, “There wasn’t anything you could’ve done. The darkspawn are to blame, not you.”

Leandra shakes her head, “They would have been happy with any prey. It was my fault that it was Bethany.” She stares at the wall, blinking back tears, “Eighteen years of feeding, and loving… and then she’s gone.”

Silence falls over them. Gareth doesn’t know how to break it, so he lets it hang.

He misses Bethany.

 

 

 

 

He whiles away the rest of the afternoon with a variety of errands. What surprises him is the letter of apology he finds from Athenril, which comes along with the offer of _paid_ work if he’s still interested. It’s something to think about, especially with the expedition and his potential partnership regarding it to consider.

Carver slips away at some point, to do whatever it is that he does when he’s not following Gareth around Kirkwall like a menacing and overbearing bodyguard. It’s both a relief and strange to be without Carver, he’s gotten so used to his presence. Wherever it is that he disappears to, Carver returns before nightfall.

There’s a faraway look on his face when he comes home – an almost dreamy expression. If Gareth didn’t know any better, he’d say his brother was in love.

Wisely, he lets the matter lie.

Meeting up with Aveline, she’s left behind her guardswoman uniform, instead donning clothes similar to the ones that she wore when they fled Lothering. Though, she’s reinforced them with light, flexible leather armour to offer more protection against whatever they might face; Lowtown’s hardly safe at night, and few outside of the horrendously drunk are willing to wander through it unarmed.

“I’ve traced the first part of Donnic’s route,” Aveline says, as Gareth and Carver approach.

“And?”

“Nothing. Though, if they wanted to catch him unawares and out of sight, they’d do it close to one of the alleys. We’ll check those next,” Aveline replies.

Varric emerges from the Hanged Man then, straightening his coat. He grins at them, “So, rescue mission?”

“That’s the plan. Hopefully, we’re not too late.”

Their formation, as they slowly move through the various alleys that make up Lowtown, is the standard that they’ve come to accept. Aveline and Carver up front, Gareth in the middle, and Varric bringing up the rear.

Two streetgangs later, Aveline pauses.

“I heard something. This way.”

The alley’s little more than a dead-end between two blocks of apartments. However, it isn’t deserted.

Gareth has enough time to recognize the familiar plate of Kirkwall’s guard, before the thieves – Coterie, most likely – turn on them. He blocks the blade of one, turns with the blow, and brings the blade of us stave up to run his opponent through. With a twirl, he knocks another one upside the head. Stunned, the thief stumbles back, right in time to take a bolt at nearly point-blank range from Bianca.

It’s a short, quick fight. Clearly, they weren’t expecting that Donnic would receive reinforcements. Five men should have been more than enough to take out a single guardsman.

A quick, surreptitious glance over Donnic reveals the man to be mostly unharmed, much to Gareth’s relief. There’s a bruise darkening on his temple, but it isn’t serious and Gareth can’t afford to heal it now without raising some serious questions.

He hates having to hide.

“Who… Ave… Aveline?” Donnic sounds dazed, and he sways on his feet when Aveline helps him up. He stares at her, more than a little slack-jawed and wide-eyed. “You’re a beautiful sight.”

“Guardsman?”

Donnic blinks, then stutters, “I mean – I was on patrol. They came out of nowhere. I took a few down but there were too many at once.” Then, his mouth tugs downwards into a frown, “The captain said that this route was supposed to be quiet.”

The satchel, which Donnic lost hold of during the fight, lies sagging near Gareth’s feet. He bends down, curiosity gets the better of him, and he opens it. Inside, there’s several neat stacks of paper, each tied together with twine and the extra weight comes from a heavy, metal object at the bottom. Gareth pulls all of the items out, weighing them in his hands.

Carver, leaning over his shoulder, says, “The seal of the viscount. Office details, city accounts.”

“Useful to a guild of thieves,” Gareth remarks. He tucks the papers and the seal back into the satchel, hands it to Aveline.

“A sacrificial delivery with one of our own.” Aveline’s hand balls into a fist, “Captain Jeven _will_ answer.” Holding the bag tightly in hand, Aveline continues, “This goes to the office of the viscount. This _will_ be known.”

“Then we should go now.”

Aveline sighs, “Unfortunately, there won’t be anyone in the Keep at this hour but a skeleton crew of the guard. We’ll have to wait until morning, when the seneschal is in and we can demand an audience with him.”

“Well,” Varric says, dusting his hands on his jacket. “Can I interest the three of you in a game of Wicked Grace down at the Hanged Man? First round’s on me.”

“I’m in,” Carver says.

Aveline hesitates, then smiles, “Alright, that sounds good.”

 

 

 

 

That morning, things happen very, _very_ quickly.

“How dare you! _I_ am guard captain! I won’t be treated like this!”

Jeven spits in the faces of the guards that come to clap him in irons. Her jerks against them, trying to fight them off, and it takes three guards to force him to begin the march of disgrace out of his office. He turns his head, shouting back to Aveline, “Fereldan _bitch_! This was none of your affair! I’ll see you hanged! Quartered! This will not stand.”

Though Gareth doesn’t know Seneschal Bran well – indeed, he was only first introduced to the man this morning – he’s quite certain that the man’s amused. There’s something in the glint in his eyes, as he speaks, “We found a number of debts to… _suspect_ peoples. Such poor character.”

Here, he pauses rather dramatically, before turning to Aveline, “But you, Aveline Vallen, have proven your loyalty and ability.”

Aveline’s spine is straight, she stands to attention, “The guard deserves better than him, messere.”

“Indeed,” Bran says. “The viscount would have you put your care for the men into direct practice. _You_ will assume the captain’s job.”

She blinks, likely only discipline keeping her mouth from dropping open like a fish as she whirls to face the seneschal, “What?”

“In due time, of course. There will be training, approvals. Months, at least.” Here, Bran does smile, or the closest he comes to it. It’s barely a twinge upward of his lips, “But who better to rebuild respect than the woman who exposed this… embarrassment. Resolve any outstanding business, guardswoman. You will be very busy.”

Aveline stares after Bran for several long moments, then, as though in a daze herself, she steps back to lean against the desk. She laughs, quietly, the sound catching in her throat and breathless, “Captain of the guard, hm?”

“Congratulations are in order, I think,” Gareth says, smiling. There’s a warm, bubbly feeling of pride swelling deep inside of his chest. Aveline’s made it.

“It’s not official yet, but thank you.” She runs her hand along the edge of the desk, “It will take some getting used to.”

He leans against the desk next to her, staring at the heavy oak door that separates the captain’s office from the rest of the barracks, “I can’t imagine the captain of the guard will like wandering in my shadow.”

It sounds a lot sadder than he meant it to be.

She nudges his shoulder with hers, gently, “It’s not like we’re on opposite sides. The good you do… it seems rather appropriate. Besides, I’ll be making the patrol schedule and, unlike Jeven, I don’t plan to lead from behind a desk.”

It fills him with more of that warmth. He won’t admit to the worrying, not out loud at least, especially not when he’s so proud of her. Aveline’s found her place and he can’t begrudge her that. Still, to know that it won’t mean a loss…

He doesn’t think he could survive the loss of anyone else.

So, smiling at her, he salutes her, “I look forward to working with you, Guard Captain Aveline.”

 

 

 

 

During the entire walk back from the Keep, he thinks about what this will mean. Aveline has her duties, now, and she had them before, but now they’ll be even more arduous than they were before. It will be even more difficult for her to slip away for their little adventures. She’ll have less time off. It’s not the end, he knows that, but it feels a little like the ending of one chapter – as Varric would likely put it.

Nothing to do about it now. Besides, Aveline deserves it. Kirkwall deserves a proper guard captain and Aveline is the very best. She will do them all proud and prove everyone wrong about those ‘nasty Fereldan refugees’.

Thus, there’s a little bit of a spring in his step when he returns home.

Of course, that doesn’t last long.

Because the moment he walks in, he finds himself in the centre of yet another one of his uncle and mother’s arguments.

“My children have been in servitude – _servitude_ – for a year! They should be nobility!”

A bleary eyed Carver, likely still more than a little hungover from the night before, leans against the narrow, rickety bunks that are tucked into a corner. Likely, the argument is what woke him.

“And if wishes were poppy,” Gamlen snaps back. “We’d all be dreaming!”

Gareth sighs. If it’s not one thing, it’s another. He steps forward, “Mother, this is how things are. Gamlen can’t do anything more and we can’t change what’s happened now.”

It’s enough for Gamlen to round on him, now, scowling, “Your mother was _supposed_ to marry the Comte de Launcet. Instead, she ran off with some Fereldan _apostate_.” He turns back to their mother, “You don’t get to stay the favourite after _that_.”

“Where’s father’s will? If I could at least see–”

Gamlen waves her off, “It’s not here, alright? It was read, it went in the vault. No one needed to look at it again.”

“Did our grandfather mention mother in his will at all? Surely you–”

“ _Our_ father died a long time ago,” Gamlen snaps. “You can hardly expect me to remember.”

Wandering over, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, Carver mutters, “Oh, of course not. Why would _you_ do something so reasonable?”

Gareth ignores the comment. He says to Gamlen, almost pleadingly, “ _Please_ , uncle. We have a right to see it for ourselves.”

“Maybe so… but you won’t be seeing the bloody thing. It’s still in the estate and that’s long out of my hands.” Gamlen makes to wash his hands of it, and tries to push his way past his nephews, who firmly block his path. He’s not getting away that easily. Not yet, at least.

“What daft bastard leaves _that_ behind?”

For once, Carver’s right. It’s ridiculous that Gamlen would leave the will behind as he has. Ridiculous or… suspicious. More than likely, it’s the latter. Gamlen’s always been rather shifty about the entire matter of the estate, and Gareth wouldn’t put it past him to have hidden something from them about it. It would be just like Gamlen to want everyone to be as miserable as him.

“It was old news!” Gamlen flaps, looking increasingly like a panicking doe. “You think I’ve been sitting around here for twenty-five years waiting for your mother to slink back to lick her wounds?”

Leandra winces, but presses on – her voice only shaking slightly, “Who bought the estate, Gamlen? Perhaps I could speak to them. Was it the Reinhardts?”

“No one _you_ know. Get used to Lowtown, _sister_. That’s where we’re going to stay.”

With that, Gamlen elbows past Gareth and Carver, making a hasty break for the door. He makes it out, without even chancing a glance behind him. Leandra watches him go, deflating slightly. She walks over to the small fireplace, settling down in front of it on the worn rug. Waffles joins her, curling protectively around her and making a high, whining noise until she ruffles his ears.

Gareth looks at Carver, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, that was… suspicious.”

Carver snorts, “Very astute.” He runs a hand through his hair, “Maker, what a mess… I want to make things better for mother, but Gamlen? He makes a little bit of sense. Having to play caretaker to someone else’s life? Being stuck in their shadow? That’s no way to live.”

The bitterness is like a slap in the face.

“Something you need to say, Carver?”

“Look, you wanna get into this now, fine. I don’t care. I never lived here – none of this _matters_ to me. It’s not home.”

“We can’t change what happened, Carver. No matter how much we might want to.”

“... you _could’ve_ saved Bethany.”

It feels like being punched in the heart. It’s a low blow, and they both know it. Carver looks at him, wide-eyed, shocked that he voiced that. He opens his mouth, to apologize, to take the words back, but it’s too late.

“I know,” Gareth whispers, staring at the floor. He could have saved Bethany. He knows. He knows it’s his fault.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Carver says. “I didn’t…” He sucks in a breath, coughs, trying to find a way to change the subject to something less painful. He finally settles on, “Mother gave me her old key. To the estate. Look, finding grandfather’s will doesn’t matter to me; I didn’t know him.”

It’s a peace offering; awkward and tentative, but Gareth’s more than willing to take it. Anything to keep from lingering on the memory of Bethany.

“She’s tried her best to give us what we need,” Gareth says, voice wavering slightly. “We owe her the same.”

“You’re right, but it’s not like we can march right up and ask slavers to give her back that life.”

He blinks, “What have you heard?”

Though still pale in the face, Carver snorts weakly, “Uncle’s a chatty drunk. He was up to his neck and signed _everything_ over. _That’s_ who bought the estate. Apparently the most extensive wine cellar in Kirkwall is now a slave highway from the Undercity. _That’s_ the family legacy.”

“That seems like something that needs changing.”

Carver grins, small and hesitant, but there nonetheless. “Alright. If the key works, we’ll clear the estate from the Undercity up.”

Though Aveline’s tied up with paperwork and protocol for her coming promotion to guard captain, Varric’s available and apparently none the worse for wear from their get together the night before. As a matter of fact, he’s downright perky when Gareth drops into the Hanged Man.

“What’s on the agenda today?”

“We’re clearing out some slavers from the old family estate,” Gareth says.

“I’m assuming that you have a plan for this.”

Carver presents the key, which Varric eyes closely.

“Huh, didn’t know you were related to the Amells.”

“Our mother is one,” Gareth supplies. “The key’s to the old cellar entrance. We’re headed to Darktown. You coming?”

Varric grins, shouldering Bianca. He cracks his knuckles and waves off the bartender to let him know he’s leaving, “‘Course I am! Let’s get going!”

Darktown is the charming nickname bestowed upon the Undercity by the denizens of Kirkwall. It’s an area of the city even worse off than Lowtown and when they refer to it as being the ‘Undercity’, they mean it; it’s actually the areas built into the cliff-like hill that Kirkwall is built upon. Much of it has a charming view of the mine that was once the heart of the Imperium’s activities in the area.

Largely, it’s populated by those looking not to be found, those who can’t even afford the lowest rents in Kirkwall, and a certain segment of Kirkwall’s criminal class. It’s precisely the sort of place that one doesn’t want to be caught dead in after dark.

Gareth’s frequently Darktown before, usually on errands for Athenril. Much of the smuggling was done in and out of Darktown, while the wares themselves were usually brought up to the higher tiers to be sold. Since splitting with Athenril, he’s only been down there once; it’s not a place he would’ve thought to return to, but here he is.

For his family, he would do anything.

None of them are certain what they’re looking for, although Varric’s seen maps of the area which gives them a rough idea of where to look. It’s not much, but it’s a start.

Eventually, they find the sigil of the Amell family scratched into the stonework marking a partially collapsed doorway. There’s just enough space for them to crawl through, one at a time.

“Well, this looks like the place,” Carver says. “If the cellars go this far, maybe we were important.”

Varric shrugs, “Dunno much about the politics behind that, sorry.”

The first one to scramble through the narrow gap is Carver. He calls back, “I found the cellar door! Key fits!”

Gareth has to boost Varric up enough for the dwarf to be able to climb through the gap. Once Varric’s through, he follows, landing in an uneven crouch in the dust on the other side.

It’s a very narrow, small room that they’ve landed themselves in. And it’s a good thing that they didn’t bring Aveline with them, because it’s cramped enough with just the three of them. It’s also very dark, the thin light filtering in through the gap barely enough to see by.

Holding up his hand, Gareth conjures a small handful of veilfire. It illuminates the area in flickering, green light, revealing the heavy, carved door that’s set into the floor. Carver’s crouched down next to, the heavy iron key fitted into the lock.

Looking up at Gareth, Carver grins and turns it. The lock opens with a resounding click. Getting the door itself open is difficult with the three of them squished into the room together, but they manage it – somehow. It involved a lot of very creative positioning. Eventually, they get it open enough for Varric to squeeze through and drop down. After that, it’s easy for Carver to drop down, and then Gareth.

The door closes above them with a loud, muffled thud.

For each of them, Gareth conjures a small handful of veilfire to light the way. Varric’s wary of it, holding it a good distance away from himself, but aside from a frown, he says nothing.

It’s a very long, very quiet walk through the cramped tunnel that leads into the cellars of the old Amell estate.

The cellars themselves, when they reach them, have that musty smell of a place that hasn’t been inhabited in some time. However, torches still burn in their sconces and the floors are remarkably clean of dust. The racks upon racks of wine that they pass, however, are caked in dust that’s inches thick.

The slavers likely didn’t purchase the estate for the wine, but for access to the Undercity. After all, where better to find people that no one would miss? The thought of it has Gareth’s blood boiling. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. It’s not the time to lose his temper; not now. It wouldn’t do to give the slavers a heads up that they’re there.

The first group, they take by surprise.

Varric picks off two of them with Bianca before they even realize that they’re there.

With a rapid charge, Carver takes down one, while Gareth takes down the other. The two of them move in easy pace with each other, falling into the old synergy that they trained to perfect when they were young and still learning. Gareth hadn’t realized how much he missed those days – when they could laugh easily together, when they were the best of friends.

They’ve drifted apart and he doesn’t know how to bridge the distance between them any longer.

Maybe that’s why he’s doing this. It’s not just for his mother. Maybe he’s hoping that if he can reclaim some part of their family’s history – their legacy – that he can use it to find his way back to Carver. It’s stupid and he knows that it won’t work, but he’s out of ideas.

The wine cellars are rather like a maze and there’s little conversation as they navigate through its winding halls and towering racks. The last thing they want is to alert the slavers that they’re here. Instead, they quickly and efficiently eliminate the slavers that they encounter.

Carver breaks the silence eventually, when they pass through a doorway that’s flanked by two heavy looking engraved metal crests, “The Amell family crest. Mother described it once. If you put that above your door, you better make sure you have the ties to back it up. Otherwise, you just look old.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh at that.

Through the crest marked doorway, it’s a long hall that leads into a large, cavernous room. It’s the biggest one that they’ve come to yet, and there’s a number of casks stored in the wooden shelves here. The room also lacks the musty smell that permeated the hallways that they’ve passed through, and there’s no inches of dust here.

Clearly, the room’s seeing more use than just a secret tunnel to the Undercity.

A door cracks open, drawing Gareth’s attention to the stairs that lead up and out of the cellar. The stairs creak as a man descends the stairs. Gareth can’t make out his face, which is hidden by the shadow of his hood, but he knows immediately that the man’s a mage. He can feel the tell-tale crackle of energy that sets the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.

The man’s flanked by three other men, each of whom are heavily armed though lightly armoured.

The man stops halfway down the stairs, staring at them, “Who the – did that bastard Gamlen put you up to this?! Men! Kill them! I knew I should’ve slit his throat when I had the chance!”

Two well-placed shots from Bianca knock the man’s staff out of his hands. He fumbles, holding his hand, while his men charge.

Gareth catches the axe head of one with his staff, long enough for Carver to stun him with a blow to the head from his pommel. Then it’s a simple matter of twisting his staff around, bringing the blade up and through the man’s chest. He crumples lifelessly to the ground.

He has to leap back, narrowly avoiding a bolt of lighting.

He’s too far to land a good blow with his staff. Instead, Gareth focuses, launches a barrage of veilfire at the mage. The veilfire streaks towards him like fiery green knives. Harmless, but the man doesn’t know that.

The man winces. Drops his guard. A bolt blossoms from his chest. He clutches at it, trying weakly to pull it out as he stumbles back from the force of it.

He’s dead before he hits the ground.

“I think that’s the last of them,” Gareth says, wiping the blade of his stave on the ground.

“Must’ve been the ringleader.”

Carver points towards the stairs that the man came down, “The vault has to be up there. Let’s get what we came for and get out of here.”

The vault itself isn’t what Gareth expected. It’s a simple room, up one flight of stairs from the cellar, that’s full of chests. Some of the chests are ornate, others are much more simple. There’s an assortment of other wares and possessions in the room, but it’s not what he’d consider to be a ‘vault’ of any kind.

Finding the will takes time. They have to open chests, peer into crates, and try to sort through what seems to be a lifetime’s worth of… stuff. Gareth eventually finds the will, buried beneath a thin, yellowing dress that he thinks may have belonged to his mother; it smells like her, of daffodils and lilies.

Carver leans over his shoulder, “So that’s it? Grandfather’s will? Let’s get it back to mother and be done with this.”

He nods, “No point in delaying the news.”

He makes no mention of the small stack of letters that he found under the will, neatly bound with a length of twine. Gareth takes those with him. He recognizes his father’s name and cannot help but wonder why his grandparents would have held onto the letters for the apostate son-in-law they never acknowledged.

The return trip goes much faster than coming in. Without the need to be quiet, they can move much faster and knowing where they’re going once they hit Darktown is an even bigger plus. The three of them are outside of the Hanged Man by the time that dusk hits.

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow then, Hawke?” Varric asks, hesitating outside the door.

“Definitely.”

“I’ll keep my ears open. See if I hear of any work worth doing. If I do, I’ll pass it along to you.”

“Thanks, Varric.”

Varric waves him off, entering the Hanged Man. The evening is still warm, though the temperature will drop quickly once night sets in. He and Carver walk the rest of the way to Gamlen’s small apartment, with Gareth flicking through the will as he goes.

It’s a very enlightening read.

As always, they walk into yet another argument between Leandra and Gamlen. Per usual, it’s about money. Fueled by Gamlen’s lack of it.

“... blood’s blood and all, but you _are_ taking advantage of my hospitality,” Gamlen’s saying. “I think it’s only reasonable that you make a contribution–”

“You sold my children into _servitude_! Now you’re asking _me_ to pay rent?!”

Gamlen coughs, spots Gareth and his eyes go wide. He quickly stares at the floor, shuffling and scuffing his feet, “Well, I… maybe… put something towards food…?”

“We found the will,” Gareth says.

Gamlen winces, but says nothing.

“Grandfather left everything to us.” Carver comes up behind him, the will in hand. He has it folded open to the relevant passage, “I guess he had some sense left in him after all.” He offers it to their mother, “See for yourself.”

Leandra takes her father’s will from Carver, her eyes catching on the passage that Gareth found when he flipped through it on their way home. She reads, “‘To my daughter Leandra, and all children born of her… the estate in Hightown and all associated revenues…’”

“Look at the part where Gamlen is to be left a stipend – to be controlled by _you_.”

Looking up at her brother, Leandra’s expression is desolate, “Gamlen, how could you?”

“You’re the one that ran away, Leandra!” Gamlen snaps, jabbing an accusative finger at her. “So what happened to ‘love is so much more important than money’, hm?!”

“It is!”

“You didn’t even come to the funeral!”

“The twins were a week old!” Leandra’s hands are shaking, clenched tightly around her father’s will.

“We all have our burdens! Mine was looking after the life _you_ abandoned!” Gamlen’s spitting as he rants, voice raising in volume as he continues, “I took care of father! I _stayed_! And yet all he could talk about on his deathbed was _Leandra_!”

Gamlen sighs, the sound rough and angry like a bull snorting, and runs both of his hands through his hair. Anger simmers under his voice, making it rough and uneven when he next speaks, “Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it, but I did. There’s nothing that I can do now to get it back.”

When Leandra speaks, her voice is soft and soothing, much like when she used to calm them when they suffered from nightmares as children, “It’s enough to know that mother and father didn’t die angry with me. Now tomorrow, I’ll go and begin the process of petitioning for the right to reclaim the estate. Maker willing, you’ll have your ‘house’ back in less than a month.”

“You don’t have the coin _or_ standing to even get an audience with the viscount!” Gamlen snorts, crossing his arms. “You’ve got to _be_ someone in this city to live in that house.”

Their mother smiles, sharp-edged and the first one that Gareth’s seen on her face in a long time, “Then I’d better get started.”

Dinner is a… stressed affair. Gamlen keeps glaring bloody murder, alternating between directing it at Leandra and Gareth. Once dinner’s cleared away, he takes off – likely to drink away his frustration. With their uncle’s departure, Carver flops into the bunk that he shares with Gareth, head pillowed on his arms.

Leandra watches him, a small fond smile on her face, before gesturing to Gareth that he should follow her outside.

The temperature’s already begun to drop, chilling the air. Their breath creates little puffs of fog as they breath, and Leandra pulls the shawl she brought out with her closer around her shoulders. She sits down on the edge of the staircase that leads down into Lowtown, patting the spot next to her.

Sitting beside his mother, Gareth looks up towards the sky. He can see a few of the constellations that he recognizes, but the sky above Kirkwall isn’t as clear as the one above their home in Lothering was.

The silence stretches on for several moments, comfortable and easy.

“When I told your grandmother that I was going to marry your father, she was furious. She wanted to disown me,” Leandra eventually says, quietly. “She said that my children would be mongrels. My father, when he found out, wanted to lock me up, but she told him, ‘It’s her life. Let her ruin it’.”

Leandra sighs, her head and shoulders drooping, “I wrote to her when each of them were born. She never wrote back, of course. But... it’s good to know that she didn’t die hating me.”

Gareth wraps an arm around her shoulders pulling her close and tucking her up against him, “She didn’t hate you, mother. She was just afraid of losing you.”

His mother nods, her head resting against his shoulder, “She would have been proud of you, you know. You’re everything that she wanted in an Amell grandchild: calm, level-headed, always willing to help others. Oh, she might have had a hard time accepting it at first, but she would have loved you. All… all three of you.”

Bethany’s memory hangs heavy in the air. Gareth says nothing, simply stares up into the sky; his throat feels swollen, as though there’s something hot and sharp lodged in it. Their mother makes no comment on his silence, and she doesn’t try to continue the conversation.

The two of them sit there, in silence, until the cold drives them back inside.

 

 

 

 

Sleep doesn’t come easily to Gareth. Instead, he spends the night reading the letters he found. All of them are written in the same neat hand, all addressed to his father. Each are from the same man, a man by the name of Tobrius. There’s vague mentions of magic, of the Circle, and a reference to the Gallows. Tobrius, then, must have been a mage like his father.

He wonders, in the early hours of the morning when the light filtering in through the high-slitted windows is thin and grey, whether or not this Tobrius is still alive.

It’s worth checking, he believes. They know so little of their father’s life before he met their mother, before they were born, even. The stories that their father used to tell to them at bedtime seem so far removed from reality now, years after maturity and adulthood have settled in.

Carver sleeps in that morning, leaving Gareth to his own devices. He decides that he’ll check in with Athenril, see what she’s offering in terms of paid work, and then head to the Gallows to see whether or not this Tobrius is still alive.

He tells his mother where he’s going, kisses her goodbye, and checks the blade on his stave before he leaves.

The meeting with Athenril goes about as well as he expected it to. There’s a lot of barbed words, but she eventually tells him what she needs. It’s something to do, anyway, that night, and this time there should be coin in it.

After that, he makes his way to the Gallows.

Gareth won’t lie: he’s been avoiding the place since they first arrived in Kirkwall. The Gallows is crawling with templars and is the location of Kirkwall’s Circle. It’s an incredibly dangerous place to be for an apostate mage – particularly one of his talents. He still remembers what his father said about him, about spirit healers.

“ _Spirit healers outside of the Circle… if the templars caught you, you would be executed immediately if not made Tranquil. They do not look kindly upon those that exist outside of their control._ ”

His entire life has been spent living in fear of everything that the Gallows represent. And here he is, wandering right into it in search of another mage who may not even be alive any longer. That seems to be his lot as of late: chasing down ghosts.

It’s only once he’s actually in the Gallows, the letters tucked away safely into his coat, that Gareth realizes what a fool’s errand this actually is.

How is he supposed to find this man? He has no idea what this Tobrius even looks like. He could, he supposes, go about asking, but that seems like it would arouse some suspicion. After all, what would a Fereldan refugee want with a member of the Kirkwall Circle?

As he’s just convinced himself to take the next ferry back to the city, there’s a lit tap on his shoulder. Gareth turns, a question on his lips, but it dies when he sees the look on the man’s face.

The man stares at him as though he’s just seen a ghost.

“Can I–”

He swallows, hard, “You… are a Hawke, are you not?”

Gareth stares, blinks once, twice, then, “Yes, I am. And you are?”

“My name is Tobrius,” the man says, inclining his head in greeting. “I knew your father once, Malcolm.”

He swallows. It cannot be this easy, “Actually, I came here to try and find you.”

“You did?”

Gareth removes the letters from his jacket, carefully refolded and rebound with their twine. He hands them to Tobrius, “I found these. I…”

He doesn’t know what else to say, what to ask. It’s the first time that he’s found a piece of his father’s past. And he’s got absolutely no idea where to start.

Tobrius runs his fingers over the edges of the letters, which are soft and worn with age. The parchment has gone yellow and crinkly, making a soft rustling noise as he traces the edges. He looks to Gareth, “Your father was a good man; the best of us. There are few like him left. Even fewer like the templar.”

“The… templar?”

Tobrius nods, “He allowed your father to leave Kirkwall. ‘Rule is not served by caging the best of us’. A wise man.”

“That’s not… what I expected from a templar.”

When he smiles, it’s thin and worn, revealing how aged Tobrius is. He’s no longer the young mage that Gareth’s father once wrote to, “There was a time when the rules of the Order could be interpreted to suit a situation… unlike today.”

He stares almost wistfully into the distance, then nods to himself, “I will bring you the letter that I kept. It seems fitting that they return to his family. Wait here, I shall not be long.”

Left to his own devices while he waits for Tobrius to return, Gareth does the only real thing that he can do in the Gallows that won’t arouse suspicion: he browses the armourer’s wears. There isn’t actually anything there that he’s interested in, but it’s something to do and it keeps him from having to wander past Tranquil, mages, and templars. Low profile, that’s important.

It takes Tobrius a little while to return, and Gareth’s been examining the same blade for the last twenty minutes.

“Here you are,” Tobrius says, holding out a neat stack of letters, all bound together with twine. “Your father could not write to him directly and, well, after his death… I held onto these. I doubt that we will see many of his kind again. Rest at the Maker’s side, Ser Maurevar Carver.”

_Carver?_

“Thank you,” Gareth says. And he can’t think of anything else to say. His tongue feels heavy and swollen in his mouth.

Tobrius merely smiles, “I am glad to see that his son takes after him so well. May the Maker watch over you.”

“And you as well.”

After, when he’s walking in a daze back to their home in Lowtown, Gareth knows that he’s an idiot. There was so much he could have asked Tobrius – _should have_ – and didn’t. He could go back, he thinks, not now but some other time, and ask. They could talk, and he could learn more of what his father – was like before.

He pauses in the shadow of the apartment building, looking down at the letters in his hand. Ser Maurevar _Carver_.

Too much to be a coincidence.

When he enters their place, Carver is awake, slumped over in one of the chairs at the rickety table that’s near the fire. He doesn’t glance up when Gareth enters, simply continues to stare into the flames.

“Daydreaming about life in Hightown?” Gareth asks, lips curled up in a grin.

Carver starts, nearly falling out of his chair. He shoots a glare at Gareth as he rights himself, straightening his posture as he does; his scowl is truly impressive, “Funny, but we’re a long way from cowing templars with our titles.”

His grin slips. Carver’s in another one of his moods again. The sour ones that Gareth has no idea how to deal with.

“Something on your mind?” he ventures.

“Mother’s gone up to the Keep, to see about her petition to reclaim the estate,” Carver explains. He crosses his arms, leans back in his chair, and continues to scowl into the fireplace. “And when she’s done and we’ve got the estate back, I don’t know. I guess we’ll just sit around and think about how great our family _used_ to be. Mother didn’t care about that life or want it back till we ended up here. And _you_ only care because we’re under templar scrutiny!”

He sighs, “Very well, Carver. What’s your plan?”

Best to let him get it out of his system. Maybe it’ll give him some insight into what’s going on inside of his brother’s head.

“I’d look forward, make something new,” Carver says, as though it’s that easy. “Stop paying debts for old men. And if I had to go backward, I’m not looking for ancient names. I’d fix what’s important. What went wrong.”

“We can’t just go back.” As much as he wishes that they could, they can’t. There’s no magic in all of Thedas that could accomplish such a thing; and even if there was, the cost of it would be too high to consider paying.

“We wouldn’t need to if you’d done it right!” Carver snaps, standing. His chair skitters backwards across the floor, scraping loudly as it goes. “Lothering was our home, not _this place_! We could have stood our ground! _You could have stopped that ogre from killing Bethany_!”

Gareth stumbles back, as though he’s been struck. His heart pangs, drops out of his chest.

“I know,” he says, quietly. His voice is strangled, catches on the syllables as they leave his mouth. _He could have saved Bethany_.

Carver wavers, biting his lip. In that moment, he looks like the small child he once was; the one that used to cling to Gareth’s legs and look up at him with wide eyes. Who used to ask him nonstop questions and then would bite down on his lip when he realized that he’d crossed a line.

“I… I’m sorry,” Carver says. “I didn’t…” He clears his throat, coughs, “I feel… it’s like mother, taking everything out on us. She was just scared. I didn’t… I’m sorry.”

The silence hangs, weighted and heavy, for several long, tense moments, before Gareth speaks again.

“You’re forgiven. It’s alright. I know… how you feel.”

Carver clenches his fist, unclenches it. He stares at his hand as he speaks next, “I don’t have a place in this life that she’s trying to bring back. I’m here if you need me, but I’m going to have to find my own way.”

The letters are heavy in his hand. Gareth holds them up, almost like a shield. He sucks in a deep breath, unsure now of how well this will go over with his now volatile brother. He holds them out towards Carver, a peace offering.

“Here, I brought these for you.”

“For me? Why?” Carver stares at them, confused. He takes them slowly, as though there’s a poisonous spider hiding amongst their pages. He unfolds the first one gingerly, like it will bite him. He scans the first few lines, “Wait, these are by father. Shouldn’t you be keeping them? You’d get more out of them as a mage, I imagine.”

He’s already read them, page to page. Carefully, he reaches out, turning the yellowed parchment over. His finger brushes against the ink, indicating the lines that Carver needs to see.

Dutifully, Carver reads: “‘For your service that cannot be admitted, I ask that you accept this trinket and know that I shall respect your name. Thank you, conscience of the Order, Sir Maurevar Carver’.”

There’s a long pause. Carver blinks.

“ _Carver_?”

Gareth nods, “The templar who allowed father to leave Kirkwall. Your namesake.”

“A _templar_?” Carver’s still shocked. “Have we met a templar who isn’t a colossal prig?”

The smile is weak, but there. Gareth appreciates the effort Carver’s putting in, “He was a good one.”

Carver looks back to the letters in his hands, which shake slightly. His breathing is heavier, and for a moment Gareth’s worried that he might be falling ill. It passes quickly; Carver’s just overwhelmed.

“A man who let him look ahead. A name that would always mean ‘skill thoughtfully applied’.” Carver looks up, “That’s what I was to him. A way to look forward. I... thank you, Gareth.”

“You’re welcome.”

There’s little else to be done in the apartment and the atmosphere remains oppresive. Even though they have tried to move past Carver’s earlier outburst, the words still linger in the air. It doesn’t take too long until Gareth knows that he can’t stand it any longer.

He pushes away from the wall he’s been leaning against. It’s still hours till dusk, when he needs to head to the docks to check for Athenril’s goods, but there’s always work to be found in Kirkwall.

“Where are you going?” Carver asks.

“I think I’ll have a walk up to Hightown,” Gareth replies, shouldering his stave. “And check the Chanter’s board, see if there’s anything worthwhile.”

“I’ll come with you.”

It’s an incredibly awkward and silent walk from Lowtown to Hightown. Several times, Gareth catches Carver opening his mouth to say something, before he thinks better of it and closes it again.

Their walk is, for the most, uneventful. It’s late afternoon and most of the population is out and about, either hard at work or running errands. Thus, when they enter the courtyard that faces Kirkwall’s Chantry, the only ones about are members of the clergy.

Gareth’s attention is caught by frantic movement. He blinks, surprised to see Grand Cleric Elthina herself out and about. He’s only seen the woman at Chantry services, never out in the city itself.

“Sebastian!” She shouts, hurrying down the stairs. “Stop this madness!”

Her cries are clearly meant for the red-haired man who is hanging a notice to the Chanter’s Board. He’s tall, lithely built, with a quiver of arrows strapped across his back. And he pointedly ignores the grand cleric as she berates him.

“The Chantry cannot condone revenge, Sebastian!” Elthina halts in front of him, pointing to the notice that he’s just finished pinning to the board.

Whatever his response is, Gareth misses it. They’re too far away for him to hear. The archer, Sebastian, begins striding towards them, though he pays the both of them little mind.

Elthina rips the parchment from the board, brandishing it, “ _This_ is murder!”

In a whirl of motion, Sebastian turns, bow in hand. He notches and looses an arrow faster than Gareth can follow. It doesn’t strike the grand cleric, instead pinning the parchment in her hands once more to the board.

Sebastian lowers the bow slowly, “No. What happened to my family _was murder_.”


	4. take a breath and dive in deep

After the night he’s had, Gareth is prepared to sleep for several days. He and Carver tumble into their bunk late into the night, having dealt with mercenaries and Coterie all in the span of a few hours. Tired and weary, Gareth knows that he’s going to be sore in the morning. At the very least, he thinks, the Docks will be safer now.

Still, there’s a little blossom of warmth in his chest. He would rather give away Athenril’s goods to help someone in need, than be paid. The lad, Pryce, will be able to find safer, more gainful employ now and provide for his sisters.

Everything worked out fine.

He’s able to fall asleep with a smile on his face and, for the first time in a long time, he sleeps peacefully.

The next morning dawns, bright and clear, light filtering in through the high, narrow windows. When Gareth finally crawls out of the cramped bunk, it’s to find that he’s not the first one up for once. His mother’s up and about, doing a little bit of light housekeeping.

It’s not really necessary, given that there’s hardly anything in the apartment. It’s a simple, one room affair. There are the narrow bunks in the corner that Carver and Gareth built out of what scrap they could salvage, replacing Gamlen’s broken down cot. A tiny, rusted fireplace is in the corner, the only source of warmth for the entire apartment and arranged in front of it is a small table and three chairs.

Aside from that, there’s the cracked mirror and wash basin in the corner. The wooden floor is largely bare, except for an incredibly worn rug that’s arranged under the table and partially in front of the fire. All of their clothes and worldly possessions are locked up in a small chest, which sits innocently under the table.

There’s very little to indicate that there’s a family of four living here. About the only thing on display is Gamlen’s old wallop mallet, which is mounted to the wall. Likely because if it wasn’t, someone would have stolen it.

Leandra smiles as he emerges. She gestures to the table as she continues to sweep the floor, “A note arrived for you. I believe it’s from your new friend, Varric?”

It’s a simple, folded piece of paper, sealed with a pinch of wax. Gareth cracks it with a fingernail, opening it. The note’s not long; only a single sentence.

‘ _Got a couple leads and we should talk. – V_ ’

“Thanks.” He leans in, giving her a quick kiss to the cheek. “I’ll head over to the bathhouse, then meet up with Varric at the Hanged Man. Let Carver know?”

“If he asks,” Leandra replies, waving him off.

There are at least three common bathhouses within Lowtown. None of the apartments or homes here have actual bathing facilities, so the majority of residents make use of those that are public. There’s one in the section of Lowtown that’s been taken to house the Fereldan refugees and it’s to that one that Gareth goes. It’s one of the very few buildings in Lowtown that has any sort of luxury to it; the floors and basins are all beautifully finished and there’s a series of lovely mosaics that decorate the walls.

It’s a refreshing experience and Gareth carefully bundles away his dirty clothes into his pack. True, they have few luxuries in Kirkwall, but there’s something to be said about being clean.

He heads to the Hanged Man, stomach grumbling, and resigns himself to a meal of questionable meat. Well, it won’t be so different than what they eat at home. Practically everything that they can afford is of questionable or often dubious origin. It comes with the territory of being a Fereldan refugee. They’re lucky if they can – on a rare occasion – afford something from one of the butchers in Hightown.

Varric’s got his own private set of rooms at the Hanged Man. They’re on the second level, set a little ways apart from the rest of the rooms that are available to be rented out. When Gareth arrives, Varric’s already ordered for the both of them, and there’s two bowls of steaming, hot stew sitting on the table waiting – along with two mugs of the signature ale of the tavern below.

“Hawke! Come on in, sit down! Hope you don’t mind, but I ordered breakfast for the both of us.” Varric gestures at the only empty seat at the table.

“It’s fine,” Gareth says, taking his seat. “You wanted to speak with me?”

“Aside from our little game of Wicked Grace, I still haven’t had the chance to get your story out of you. Besides, I figure that you’ve got questions of your own for me.”

“What would you like to know?”

The stew’s actually quite good. So long as Gareth doesn’t think too hard about the possible authenticity of the meat. He doesn’t want to know what it actually is; he’ll content himself with the knowledge that it tastes like beef.

Varric tents his fingers above his own bowl of stew, leans in closer, “We can start with the basics. Junior says you’re from Lothering?”

“It’s where our home was,” Gareth says, with a nod. “But none of us were actually born there. I was born in Amaranthine, while the… twins were born in Highever. We moved to Lothering when I was very young due to… circumstances.”

Varric nods, “And you lived your entire life there?”

“Until the Blight came, yes. Carver had joined the king’s army and gone to Ostagar. I remained at home with our mother and… Bethany.” His voice catches when he says her name. There’s a pang in his chest, but it’s lessened slightly.

Time doesn’t heal all wounds, he knows this. It just makes the pain lessen.

Varric doesn’t say anything about his rough voice, how he can barely bring himself to talk about his little sister. Instead, he gestures for Gareth to go on, listening intently.

“We should have fled sooner, but… we had to wait for Carver. We couldn’t leave him behind. It hadn’t taken long for word to reach Lothering that Ostagar was a disaster, that the king was dead, and that this was, in fact, a Blight. There were refugees pouring in almost daily from the horde’s advance, not to mention the deserters and survivors of the battle. Once Carver returned, we fled.”

He takes a deep, steadying breath, “We… lost Bethany. There was an ogre. She died protecting our mother.”

“An ogre?” Varric stares. “Not many people can say they met one of those and survived.”

His smile is mirthless, “It was huge. And bloody terrifying. But all I can remember thinking when I faced it was that: ‘This is not going to take anyone else’.”

Varric whistles, the sound low and soft, “Damn.”

“After that, it was just a matter of reaching Gwaren and making it to Kirkwall. We had… help.” He’s not so sure how believable the next part of their story is, simply _because_ it’s so unbelievable. “We were surrounded by darkspawn, it was hopeless. The only reason we survived and made it here is because we were saved by the Witch of the Wilds – Flemeth herself.”

The words hang, heavy in the air, for several long moments. The silence presses down on him, weighty and tense. All he can hear are the muffled sounds from the bar below them.

“Well shit. You’re serious?”

He pulls the pendant from his neck, holds it out to Varric, “She helped us in exchange for this. I’ve been waiting to hear about a Dalish clan she said was going to be in the area. For her help, I have to bring this to their Keeper.”

Varric weighs the pendant in his hands, holds it up to the light.

He’s examined the pendant himself multiple times, knows how it catches the light and seems to come alive with it. Peering into the vial, it’s as though there’s something alive and _moving_ within it. It’s disturbing and fascinating, all at the same time.

And it pulses with a magic that Gareth’s never felt before.

Sliding it back across the table to him, Varric says, “Well, I think I can help you there. Word is, a Dalish clan’s camped out on Sundermount. They arrived – maybe two days ago?”

Then that means it’s time to keep his bargain with Flemeth. He’s been nervous about this. But a deal is a deal; he’ll keep his end, as she kept hers.

“Then I suppose we know what we’ll be doing today.”

“Guess so. I’ve got a couple of leads I’m waiting for confirmation on,” Varric says. “Should be getting those in the next few days – that’ll give us some more work to do. You’re still saving up?”

He smiles, “I think we’re right on track.”

“Great! You’re a real lifesaver, Hawke. And I mean that.” Varric leans back in his chair, hands clasped over his stomach. “Now, anything else you want to ask me?”

“Well, I’d like to know more about you,” Gareth says at last. “After all, we _are_ working together. I like to get to know my friends.”

“Let’s see… well, you already know I’m a surfacer, born and raised in Kirkwall. My family’s originally from Orzammar – noble House Tethras – until my father was caught fixing Provings.” He waves his hands, “It’s a dwarven thing, don’t ask. Anyway, he and our whole House got exiled. No huge loss.”

“And what _do_ you do? Merchant? Mercenary?”

Varric chuckles, the sound low and warm, “ _I_ am a younger son. It’s a difficult and dangerous position. A lot of us die of boredom. Fortunately, being Bartrand’s younger brother keeps me on my toes,” Varric sighs, “Maker knows he lacks subtlety. I’m the one who pulls strings to keep the Coterie out of our hair – keep us just a whisker ahead of the other families.”

With a shrug, Varric adds, “It’s interesting – you meet lots of people that way. And it gives me plenty of ideas for my work.”

“You write, don’t you?”

“Oh, a couple of stories, here and there. I’m not a particularly well-known writer. Not yet, anyway.”

“And Bartrand?”

“If you want to understand Bartrand, you need to understand the Dwarven Merchants Guild. These are dwarves who would sell their own mothers if it meant that they’d get a better share of the lyrium market. Anyone who deals with them has to sleep with a knife under their pillow. In my family, that’s Bartrand.”

“Guess that explains why he’s…”

“Abrupt? Impolite? Stubborn?”

“I was going to say ‘an asshole’.”

“Ha! I knew you had it in you!”

Gareth frowns, “I do, in fact, know how to swear, Varric.”

“I just didn’t think you _could_. You’re always so damn polite and nice; I’d normally say it’s sickening, but you make it work.”

“... thanks. I think.”

“Anyway,” Varric waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Now that we’ve got the requisite backstory sharing out of the way, you wanna know anything else? Or shall we get this show on the road?”

Gareth pauses, thoughtful, then asks, “What’s the plan for the Deep Roads expedition? It occurs to me that I didn’t get all of the details.”

“You know Bartrand’s running the show, obviously, otherwise we’d never have met. And he’d probably be doing that even _if_ we weren’t paying for all of it. Well, most of it. The thaig that we’re looking for is supposed to be a week’s travel from the surface, so I hope you’re not scared of the dark.”

Gareth shakes his head. He grew out of that early on in life. Neither Bethany or Carver had been afraid of it either, aided by the little wisps of veilfire he used to summon to comfort them.

“We’ve got supplies, muscle, excavators…” Varric ticks off the various groups on his hands, “The plan is to carry out everything that’s not nailed down. Usual routine when spelunking in the Deep Roads. There’s really not much else to say besides that.” Varric pauses, then almost distractedly, adds, “I’ve lived in Kirkwall most of my life and it’s dangerous enough, but it doesn’t compare to the Deep Roads.”

Varric grins, looks at Gareth, “So… let’s just call this ‘an adventure’.”

“Wonderful. We’re adventurers now.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t really suit you, Hawke.”

“It suits me just fine, Varric.”

With breakfast finished, the two of them wander downstairs to the bar itself. Carver’s there, awkwardly standing near the bar and watching the serving girls with a pink flush high in his cheeks. He cuts over to them when he spots them.

“Mother said that you’d be here. What’s going on?”

“Nothing serious. But it’s about time that we repay the witch for her services,” Gareth says, in a low voice. “Come on, we’ll see if Aveline is free to come with us. I’m sure that she’ll want to be here for this.”

Carver’s mouth is set into a firm frown, but he nods, “Then let’s go.”

When they reach the barracks, it’s to find Aveline sitting behind her desk, with a stack of paperwork towering over her head. A look of relief steals across her face when Gareth pokes his head in.

“You look like you could use rescuing,” Gareth remarks.

“Tell me you have _something_ for me to do. Preferably something that needs hitting.”

“That bad, huh?”

“I knew that the promotion would come with extra work. More reports, requisitions, the operations of running the guard day-to-day.” Aveline sighs, rolls her shoulders and neck, “I’m not even officially captain, yet they’re putting me through the paces already. Today’s _supposed_ to be my day off.”

“Oh, good. Then you can come with us?”

Aveline raises an eyebrow, “That depends. Where are you going? And what will you be doing?”

He tugs the amulet out from under his tunic, lets it catch the light. “It’s about time that we paid our debt, don’t you think?”

 

 

 

 

“I don’t like this.”

“You said that when I told you where we were going. Would you rather live in debt to a Witch of the Wilds?”

“No,” Aveline says, sighing with irritation. “But I don’t like being lied to.”

“You think that she lied to us?” Gareth asks.

“Perhaps. At the very least, I doubt that she told us the full truth.”

“So,” Varric says conversationally. “Just how terrifying was this Witch of the Wilds?”

“She turned into a dragon and massacred an entire small army of darkspawn,” Carver says. “Then, once Gareth agreed to her request, she flew us to just outside of Gwaren.”

“Huh. That’s some weird shit there.”

The sun beats down on them when they finally spot signs of the Dalish encampment. Gareth knows little of the Dalish, for they tended to avoid coming near Lothering though he’s aware that they frequently made camp in the neighbouring Brecilian Forest. The only elves that he’s met are few and far between; there weren’t many in Lothering.

He hasn’t ventured into Kirkwall’s alienage, despite its proximity to the slums in which he and his family live. It just seems… incredibly voyeuristic.

Two elves block their path, each one dressed in beautifully molded leather armour. Each of them has a sword at their waist. One of the elves says, “Hold, shemlen! Your kind are not welcome among the Dalish.”

“I was given something meant for someone by the name of Marethari,” Gareth says. He resists the urge to touch the pendant under his coat.

“How do you know that name?” The male elf’s eyes narrow, his hand straying to the hilt of his blade.

The woman stops him, laying a hand on his arm, “Wait, this is the one that the Keeper spoke of.”

He blinks, looks Gareth up and down, “A _shemlen_? I thought he’d be an elf.”

Stepping aside and drawing her companion with her, the woman gestures behind her, “You may enter our camp, stranger. Keeper Marethari has been waiting for you.”

“If you cause trouble, you’ll meet our blades,” the man warns as they pass by.

The Dalish camp is set not too far back from where they met the guards. It’s a motley collection of tents, elves, strange looking landships, and what Gareth can only assume are their famous halla. The halla are given free reign, wandering through the camp and stopping here and there to nibble at grass or a branch.

Gareth’s not too sure which one is Marethari. However, there’s an older woman standing near the large, roaring common fire that’s at the centre of the camp and its activities. Her grey hair is pulled back from her face, emphasizing the tattoos on her face. She’s dressed in a motley collection of light mail, leather, and fur, and there’s something innately regal and otherworldly about her as they approach.

Gareth steps forward, meets her olive green eyes, and asks, “Are you Marethari?”

She turns to him, “Andaran atish’an. I am Keeper Marethari. And you are?”

“My name is Gareth, but you may call me Hawke.” Gareth removes the pendant from around his neck and holds it out to her, “I was told to bring this amulet to you.”

Marethari takes the amulet from him, examines it, and nods. She looks up to Gareth, taking in his face, and there’s a small smile on her face as she says, “There’s truth in your face. A rare thing amongst your kind. Now tell me, how did this come to you?”

“In exchange for saving my family from the Blight, a witch asked that I bring this to you.”

“I honor you for coming to me, but I’m afraid that your task is not yet done.” She gestures towards the mountain, “The amulet must be taken to an altar near the summit of the mountain and given there a Dalish rite for the departed. Once that has been done, return the amulet to me and your debt will be repaid.”

“Are you going to teach me how to perform this rite? Or will you be coming with me?”

Marethari shakes her head and hands the amulet back to Gareth, “I will send my First with you and she will perform the rite. And… once you’ve completed your task, I must ask you this: Take her with you when you leave.”

He hadn’t expected that. “If that’s what she wants.”

“It is,” Marethari says, her tone morose. She lets out a sigh, then indicates a path behind her, “Merrill is waiting for you a little ways up the mountain path. She… prefers the solitude of it to our camp. Dareth shiral.”

“Thank you,” Gareth says, inclining his head to her as a show of respect.

The four of them pass by Marethari, making their way towards the path that she indicated. It’s overgrown with underbrush, and the branches of the trees hang low overhead. The result is an oppressive atmosphere that feels like something alien and unknown; the entire mountain just feels… old. As though it’s been there since the dawn of time.

“I’m only gonna say this once, but ground has no business being anything but horizontal,” Varric comments, as they make their way up the winding, narrow dirt path.

“It’s not as bad as Aveline’s shortcut,” Gareth comments.

“True, but I’m more of a city dwarf myself.”

“How are you going to handle the Deep Roads if you can’t even deal with a path out in the open air?” Carver asks, batting aside a stray branch from hitting himself in the face.

“I’ll deal, Junior. I _am_ an adult, after all.”

“Hey!”

“Children…”

Gareth sighs. It’s going to be a long day.

Not too far up the path from them, he spots a figure sitting hunched over on a root at the side of the path. The deep green and dark brown of their outfit blends into the forest, making anything more about them hard to make out. All that he can, is that they have the typical lithe build of an elf, and the points of their ears.

The figure turns, then shoots to their feet, hastily tucking something into a pouch on her belt, “Oh! I’m sorry! You must be the one the Keeper spoke of. Aneth ara.”

She’s quite petite, at least a head shorter than Gareth is. Her smile falters for a moment, “I didn’t ask your name! Unless… it’s not rude to ask a human their name, is it? I’m Merrill. Which… you probably already knew. I’m babbling now, I’ll be quiet.”

“It’s not rude at all,” Gareth says, smiling. “I’m Hawke. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Merrill.”

“Yes! Yes it is! You’re from Fereldan, aren’t you? I spent most of my life there, too. We only came north to flee the Blight. Have you been in the Free Marches long? How do you like it here?”

Merrill’s words come out in a rush, all in the same breath, and they run together in places. It’s… rather endearing. She seems like a sweet girl.

“Only a little over a year now. We came for the same reasons you did, as we have family in the city,” Gareth replies. If she’s to come with them, then he should get to know her better; he doesn’t know why she would want to leave her clan, but it’s clear to him that she’ll be in need of friends. “As for what it’s like, it’s good enough as anywhere to start over.”

Merrill glances down to her feet, “That’s good to hear.”

When she looks back up to him, she shakes herself, and says, “Anyway, we should be going. Your task is for Asha’bellanar and it’s not wise to make her wait.”

“Then we should be going,” Gareth replies, he gestures towards the path. “Lead on, Merrill.”

“You’re sure? It’s not far and it’s not hard to find… but I mean, if you think that’s best…”

Very gently, he places his hand on her shoulder and squeezes it, “Merrill, it’s alright. I trust you.”

Her answering smile is shy, but bright, “Okay.”

As they slowly make their way up the mountain, Merrill asks an assortment of lightning quick questions one after another about life in Kirkwall, what Gareth likes best about it, and what he misses about Ferelden. She also asks him about Lothering.

“It was our home,” Carver replies, instead. “It’s the only one I’d ever known.”

“You lived in other places before?” Merrill asks, blinking her large, green eyes.

“Our parents moved to Amaranthine, initially, which was where I was born,” Gareth supplies. “We moved when I was very young to Highever, where the twins were born. After an… incident, when I was five, we left and moved to Lothering.”

“Oh wow, I’ve never been to any of those places. We usually traveled through the Hinterlands or the Brecilian Forest. We tended to stay away from anywhere with too many humans. You’re probably the first humans I’ve ever spoken to.”

“And what do you make of us?” Carver asks. He’s looking at Merrill with stars in his eyes, cheeks flushed from exertion and something more.

“You’re all very kind and welcoming. Not at all like the stories that they tell us growing up,” Merrill says brightly. She bounces along a little ahead of Gareth, what looks like a spear slung across her back.

“You’re a mage?” Gareth asks.

Merrill blinks rather owlishly, “Of course. All Keepers know a bit of old magic. Our stories tell us that all elvhen once had the gift, but like so many things, it was lost. A Keeper’s job is to remember, to restore what can be.”

“And you’ve fought opponents before?”

“I’ve done a little fighting,” Merrill replies. “But… always alone. If we get into a fight, I’ll try not to hit anyone. On our side, I mean. I’mbabblingagainlet’skeepinggoing.”

Gareth has to fight back the chuckle. Merrill may be awkward and unsure about others, but she’s sweet and that’s what’s most important.

Their trek up Sundermount takes them farther and farther up the winding path. What Gareth notices as they climb, is that the Veil here is… thin. And that the further they climb, the thinner it becomes. It’s strange and immediately puts him on his guard; where the Veil is thin, he knows from his father’s instruction, the more likely that something will slip across.

However, that’s not what they encounter when they round a corner of the path.

A Dalish hunter stands, scowling at Merrill and them as they approach. When he speaks, his voice is harsh, the syllables of his words like knives, “I see the Keeper finally found someone willing to take you from here.”

Merrill’s back goes ramrod straight, her shoulders rigid, “Yes, she did.”

“Good,” he snaps. “Finish your task quickly, shem. We can’t be rid of her fast enough.”

He shoulders them roughly, beginning to make the return to camp.

Varric murmurs, “I’m sensing a story here.”

Merrill watches the hunter go, calling after him, “I’ve made my choice! And I’ll save our clan! No matter what anyone thinks!”

Gareth frowns, glances at Merrill, “Something wrong?”

Merrill shakes her head, looking forlornly at the ground, “No. It’s just ignorance. Let’s keep going.”

The silence, which was before comfortable, is awkward and weighty now. There’s something that Merrill isn’t saying, in the way that she curls in on herself and how she won’t meet his eyes when he asks, that says as much. She’s been cut deeper by the words than she’ll admit.

It drags on for a long while, the only sounds that of their heavy breathing, before Merrill points ahead of them to a cave entrance, “We’ll have to take the cavern path. There was a landslide at some point that’s cut off access to the summit.”

Varric sighs, “Underground, then?”

“Merrill–”

“I’m sorry,” Merrill says, interrupting him. “You’re not really seeing the Dalish at their best. We’re a good people, who look out for each other… normally.”

“If you need anything, let me know? I’ll help you if I can,” Gareth offers.

“Thank you.” Merrill smiles, though it’s bittersweet, “Even if my clan doesn’t appreciate my efforts, I’m still going to see this through to the end.”

He’s pretty sure that Merrill is not talking about whatever rite it is that they’ve come here to complete. It’s something else, but he doesn’t know what, but he hopes that she’ll come to trust him enough to tell him, in time. She’s sweet and deserves to have at least one person on her side and, perhaps, two mages are better than one.

Merrill looks at the cavern, “I suppose we should have brought torches… I’m no good with fire.”

“We won’t need them,” Gareth replies.

Carver, who’s done this before, steps up and holds up a cupped hand to his brother, “Gareth’s got his own – flame, that is.”

With a little bit of concentration, Gareth conjures a flickering ball of green veilfire into his hand. He tips his hand over Carver’s and the flame flows into it like water.

“That’s… veilfire!” Merrill leans in closer, examining it with wide eyes, “I’ve read of it! It’s an old elvhen technique! They used to be able to write messages in it – feelings and thoughts. Could you teach me? I’ve never met anyone capable of actually using it.”

“Of course,” Gareth says.

Merrill eagerly holds her hands up next, watching with wide eyes and a grin that she can’t actually contain.

“It’s a little… difficult to explain,” Gareth replies. “The best way I can explain it is that it’s a… memory of fire. Hold that memory of it in your mind and visualize it. Imagine it in your hands.”

He demonstrates, breathes in, and recalls the flickering light of a flame. The veilfire responds, sparking to life in the palm of his hand. It floats there, not touching the skin, throwing off its flickering green light, but giving off no heat.

Taking a deep breath, Merrill closes her eyes. Her face screws up into a look of deep concentration. The magic hums in the hair, sparking along Gareth’s senses. But, after several long seconds, all Merrill manages is a brief, bright flash of green.

“Oh, damn!” Merrill blinks, looking at her hands with a put-out expression. “I _almost_ had it. I could feel it, there, in my fingertips, but then I got... distracted.”

Gareth smiles, tips the flames into her hands, “Don’t worry. It’ll come to you with practice.”

Once each of them are armed with a handful of veilfire, Aveline leads the way into the cavern. Carver follows close behind her, with Gareth and Merrill in the middle, while Varric brings up the rear.

There’s not a lot that Gareth can make out by the flickering light of the veilfire, and he conjures a few more wisps of it that float around them – little ghostly balls of flame that illuminate the walls of the cavern by a few inches.

“Maker, that’s creepy,” Varric comments.

“It’s beautiful,” Merrill murmurs. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to manage so many.”

“It takes practice. When I was younger, I could only manage one, maybe two. It also took a lot of concentration to get down.” Gareth glances ahead, “Now I can do it without much thought, but it took me years to be able to do this much.”

“All magic takes practice. It’s a bit like fighting, really.”

“We’re going to have to do a bit of that,” Aveline calls back. “Corpses ahead!”

Emerging out of the snaking tunnel they’d been following, they emerge into a wide open area. From above, sunlight streaks in through holes in the ceiling of the cave. Vines drip down from the ceiling, along with stalactites, while stalagmites rise up from the floor like rocky fingers.

Rolling onto the balls of his feet, Gareth spots the corpses. There’s eight of them that he can see, possibly more hiding in the murky shadows that cling to the edges of the cavern.

Merrill unshoulders her spear beside him with a little flourishing twirl. She taps the blunt end against the ground and it cracks beneath the touch. Magic sparks through the ground, up into the walls, and the vines come to life; shooting down and garroting one of the corpses. The vines trip up another, forming a living, writhing net that snags the corpses as they try to make their way across the cavern.

It’s impressive. Gareth has to close his mouth, teeth clicking together.

Following her vine assault, Merrill draws back her hand. She clenches her hand into a fist, then slams it forward.

With a rumble, the ground responds. A rock shaped fist cracks up and away from the ground, before flying forward and smashing into one of the corpses as it stumbles back to its feat. The force from the blow dismembers it, sending limbs flying in several directions at once.

“Daisy’s actually rather terrifying,” Varric remarks, firing at a stray corpse that escaped Merrill’s initial assault.

Aveline’s ahead, hacking and bashing her way through the corpses. Carver’s right beside her, taking out the remainder with great swings of his blade.

Feeling rather useless, Gareth watches Merrill. She gathers energy, fires it off in a bolt. Then another. He feels the draw and pull of the Fade, how she channels energy through her hand to launch it, and he watches as the energy shocks through each corpse she hits with deadly precision. It feels… familiar to him.

He wonders if he could do the same.

The fight’s over quickly enough, leaving nothing behind but a few twitching remnants. What life is in them will bleed out of them quickly, whatever having possessed the corpses fleeing back across the Veil. It’s a reminder of how thin the Veil is on Sundermount.

“Would you teach me how to do that?” Gareth asks, once he’s checked over everyone and assured himself that no one’s been injured.

“Do what?” Merrill asks, slinging her spear across her shoulders again.

“That bolt of magic that you cast.”

Merrill blinks, “Oh! A spirit bolt, you mean? Yes! I mean, yes, of course I can teach you! I would be more than happy to!”

“Thank you.”

Merrill’s beaming and she practically floats the rest of the way through the cave until they’ve left its dripping claustrophobia behind them for the familiarity of the narrow mountain path.

Here, Gareth can see evidence of the landslide that Merrill spoke of. Part of the mountainside has given way, the path that once wound itself up along it having given way to a completely sheer drop-off. It’s a very, _very_ long way down. Though he’s not afraid of heights, a simple glance down is enough to make his head spin.

Farther along the path, they find that their way is blocked by a barrier. It glitters blue in the sunlight, shifting from one side of the path to another and stretching up and into the sky above. Gareth’s never seen anything like it.

Merrill halts two steps before the barrier, she turns her head to glance back at them, “Let me open the way forward. It will just take a moment.”

Removing a knife from her belt, Merrill holds her hand up.

Gareth opens his mouth.

She slices her palm, blood spurting out in a rush of crimson.

The blood doesn’t fall to the ground. Instead, it hovers about Merrill’s wounded hand, flowing out in a steady stream. She holds it up to the barrier, palm forward, and the blood streams towards it.

There’s a bright flash of blinding red light.

The barrier’s gone.

Merrill turns around slowly, the wound on her hand still oozing blood which drips to the ground near her feet. It trails down her fingers, painting the skin red.

Without thought, Gareth closes the wound with a gentle nudge of white light. It stops the bleeding, the wound closing, but the blood remains behind, staining Merrill’s hand. He’s never seen blood magic before, only heard of it in theory from his father who loathed it.

“That… wasn’t normal,” Carver says haltingly.

“No, it was blood magic.”

He doesn’t mean for it to come out so accusingly. Merrill’s been nothing but kind and friendly since they met. It’s just… shocking to know that underneath all of that, she’s a blood mage.

“It was blood magic,” Merrill defends. “But I know what I’m doing. The spirit helped, didn’t it?”

“You mean the demon?”

He knows little about blood magic, but what he _does_ know is that involved demons. About the only thing that his father said about it was that it’s typically used to summon demons. That’s about as much about it as Gareth knows.

Merrill frowns, shakes her head, “Demons are just spirits. Like honour or justice. It’s not their fault that they are what they are. Besides, it’s not that different from what you do. I just don’t have a permanent bond or agreement with a particular spirit.”

“What?”

“You’re a spirit healer, aren’t you?” Merrill raises her hand, wiping the blood off her palm. She turns it over, examining the now smooth flesh.

Gareth nods his head, slowly.

With a one-shouldered shrug, Merrill continues, “Spirit healers are rare. But to be one, you have to have some… kind of connection with a spirit. An agreement or a bond, something of that sort. It’s what makes a spirit healer a… spirit healer.”

“I… didn’t actually know that.”

“Really?” Merrill blinks. She tips her head to the side, “I thought that it was well-known.”

“Not according to my father,” Gareth replies. “He knew what I was and told me… but I didn’t know exactly what that meant.”

“Your father was a mage?”

“He was,” Carver interrupts, scowling.

Gareth’s surprised at how angry Carver sounds, and looks to him. Carver’s glaring at the ground, hand balled up into a trembling fist.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Merrill shuffles on her feet, nudging her bare toes into the dirt. At long last, she says, “Shall we keep going? We’ll need to be careful; there are restless things ahead.”

Awkward silence permeates the group as they continue up the mountain. Today is full of revelations, it seems. Gareth keeps running over what Merrill told him about spirit healers, about what it means to be one. It makes sense and it matches up with his own experiences. Now, years later, he has an explanation for that presence he felt, that voice in his head before he’d passed out, when his magic had awoken all those years ago.

_“It’s going to be alright,”_ the voice had said. _“You can rest now._ ”

Had that voice been the spirit? He’d thought he’d imagined it. That it had been nothing but a child’s mind trying to rationalize what he’d just done, what had just happened. He’d woken up later, feverish and confused, in the back of his family’s wagon as they fled Highever. For days after, he’d been weak, feverish, and exhausted. He hadn’t felt like himself again until they’d reached Lothering.

He wishes that he’d known more about spirit healers. That his father had known more. Then he wouldn’t be facing so many surprises.

“You really didn’t know?” Merrill asks, quietly.

Gareth’s head twitches, startled out of his thoughts. He hesitates, then shakes his head, “My father was an apostate who… left the Circle. He didn’t know much about spirit healers beyond their existence.”

She nods, “We only know so much because of what’s been passed down to us. Spirit healers still are very rare and very precious mages. You’re very lucky. I wish I was one.” She beams at him, smile bright and cheery.

Merrill reminds him a little of Bethany with her bright smile and wide eyes. He knows he’s developing a soft spot for her already.

“I’ve never been able to do much else besides heal,” Gareth replies. “I never was very good at primal spells – which was my father’s speciality. And I didn’t have Bethany’s natural talent for the elements or hexes, either.”

Humming thoughtfully to herself, Merrill cants her head towards him, “I can teach you how to cast a spirit bolt. We’ll take it slowly, see what you have an affinity for. And you can teach me as well. An exchange of magics! How exciting!”

He smiles back at her, small and hesitant, “It really does.”

They crest a rise, coming out into a plateau that’s marked with crumbling stone monuments. On a number of them flicker small wisps of veilfire. The entire place has a feeling mystery, of desolation. It’s as though sadness and mourning have sunk so deeply into the stone that it permeates the entire area.

It’s also much chillier than lower down the mountain. Small puffs of mist cling to the ground around the stones, adding to the foreboding air.

“In the days of Arlathan, the elders came here to sleep,” Merrill says, softly. Her voices carries, though, in the still air of the graveyard, “Uthenera. The endless dream, they called it.” Her breath comes out in a cloud of fog, “But they don’t sleep peacefully anymore.”

Pointing across the plateau, Merrill indicates a stone altar, set on the edge of the cliff overlooking the valley below, “There’s the altar. We’ll need to be careful; the hunters don’t come up this way because of how thin the Veil is. The Keeper and I set the barrier to keep the restless spirits from finding their way down the mountain and into our camp.”

“More corpses,” Carver says, shaking his head. “Great, just what we need.”

Aveline, who’s been remarkably quiet the entire time, unsheathes her sword and readies her shield, “Stay alert, Carver. We’ll be done here soon.”

“And back to Kirkwall just in time for drinks at the Hanged Man,” Varric adds, checking over Bianca before he slides a bolt into place.

Gareth readies his stave while Merrill does the same with her spear. The five of them cautiously begin to make their way across the plateau, sense on high alert.

They make it halfway across. Before chaos breaks loose.

He’s only able to count ten corpses before he’s distracted by a bolt of energy shooting past him.

Merrill counts it with a bolt of her own, spear moving in a blur of motion to block a corpse’s blade. She takes off it’s head with the next blow.

Whirling away from her, Gareth spins on the ball of his foot, dodging a blade. Brings his stave up, then across. The corpse’s head goes flying. It lands somewhere to the left of him with a sickening crunch.

Carver tears his way through the battlefield, leaving corpses strewn behind him in his wake. Behind him, Aveline takes out a corpse with a swing of her shield, followed by one of her sword.

The corpses practically disintegrate under the blows, leaving behind crumpled husks that look as though they might turn to dust and blow away with the slightest brush of the wind. Gareth takes out another one, it’s skull caving in under the blow from his stave.

Shoving it away, he narrowly avoids another blast of energy.

Merrill steps in, hand whipping back and launching another fist of stone at the enemy. It connects with the creature’s head. There’s a sickening cracking noise, a tearing, then its head flies back. The force of the stone fist and the impact with the cliff behind it renders it to bloody paste. The now headless corpse flops lifelessly to the ground.

With the battle over, Gareth still can’t tell how many enemies they faced. There’s too many dismembered limbs lying about to make even an accurate guess. The most he’ll say is that there were ‘a fair few’. But that should be the last of them.

“Anyone hurt?” Gareth calls.

“I’m fine!”

“I should be fine,” Aveline says, cradling her head in one hand. But there’s a deep bruise already blossoming above her temple.

Walking over to her, Gareth looks to her for permission and only lightly ghosts his fingers over the bruise when she nods her head. The skin is swollen and hot to the touch. He takes a deep breath, lets that calm feeling wash over him as he examines the wound.

Small, hairline crack. Bleeding under the skin.

He can fix that.

His fingers glow with a soft, white light. There’s a bright pulse, then he pulls his hand away and steps back. The skin is clear of the bruise, the swelling gone, and though it’s still streaked with sweat, it’s clean.

Aveline will be fine.

She smiles at him, “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Turning back to the altar, Gareth removes the amulet from his pocket. It pulses, warm and hot, against his hand as though it can sense that its time has come. He offers it to Merrill, who takes it from him with a reverent expression on her face.

“Let’s get this over with,” Gareth says.

Merrill nods, taking the amulet to the altar and setting it on the stone. There’s a bowl of veilfire on the altar as well, flickering green flames and Gareth has to wonder about the significance of its presence here.

Clearing her throat, Merrill begins the ritual.

“Hahren na melana sahlin,” Merrill intones. She holds her hands over the altar, as though in prayer. “Emma ir abelas souver’inan isala hamin vhenan him dor’felas. In uthenera na revas.”

As Merrill finishes the rite, she steps back and away from the altar.

For a second, nothing happens.

There’s an explosion of bright, golden light from the altar, where the amulet lay. It surges upwards, followed by a tornado of air. A roar splits the air; a familiar one. It’s the roar of a dragon.

Shielding his eyes with his hand, Gareth looks away.

He looks back when the light fades away, though the air still swirls around them. As though they’re caught up in a windstorm. He blinks once, twice. Absolutely certain in that instant that he’s hallucinating.

Stepping down from the altar, casual as can be, is Flemeth. The Witch of the Wilds herself.

Flemeth smiles when she sees him, head dipping into the smallest of nods, “Aah, and here we are.”

Merrill drops to her knees in a low bow, “Andaran atish’an, Asha’bellanar.”

When she looks at Merrill, Flemeth’s face softens into something almost maternal, “One of the people, I see, so young and bright. Do you know who I am, beyond that title?”

“Only a little,” Merrill replies.

“Then stand. The people bend their knee too quickly.”

Flemeth waits for Merrill to stand, before she turns to Gareth. The corner of her lip quirks up and she tilts her head to the side a little. It emphasizes the horns of her hair, “So refreshing to see someone who keeps their end of a bargain. I half-expected my amulet to end up in a merchant’s pocket!”

He meets her eyes, “I keep my word.”

Her responding smile is predatory, shows too many teeth, “I can see.”

“You could have told me that you were inside of it.”

“Just a piece. A small piece, but it was all I needed,” Flemeth replies. “A bit of security, should the inevitable occur. And if I know my Morrigan, it already has.”

He has that feeling again. That Flemeth is far, far more than she appears. The magic about her feels old, unknowable. And he’s never heard of a spell that can allow its user to escape death; he doesn’t want to know the cost. He’d rather not get mixed up in whatever world it is that she runs in.

“You have plans, I take it?”

She smiles, canines flashing brightly, “Destiny awaits us both, my dear boy. We have much to do.” She pauses, dramatically, “But, before I go, a word of advice?”

Here, Flemeth turns away from in. She speaks with her back facing him, “We stand upon the precipice of change. The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment… and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap.” She tilts her head back to him, “It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly.”

He almost wants to snort, but refrains, “Cheap advice from a _dragon_.”

“We all have our challenges.” Flemeth turns to Merrill, “As for you, child, step carefully. No path is darker than when your eyes are shut.”

“Ma serannas, Asha’bellanar,” Merrill nods.

“Now, the time has come for me to leave. You have my thanks… and my sympathy.” Flemeth directs the last part to Gareth, before she faces away from them. Her body begins to glow in that same gold pattern.

In a blast of air, the woman Flemeth is gone, replaced by the high dragon that Gareth remembers from their flight from Lothering. She takes off, nearly flattening them to the ground with the force of her wings beating the air. They watch as she flies off into the horizon, till Flemeth is little more than a speck in the sky.

Merrill speaks first, “We should return to the Keeper. Let her know that our task is done.”

Gareth nods his head, “Let’s go.”

The trek back down Sundermount is subdued, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Gareth wonders about what Flemeth meant, but brushes it aside. His task is done, his debt is paid. He can stop thinking and wondering about Flemeth; he has other things that require his attention.

Luckily, their return to the Dalish encampment is without incident. The mountain feels… quieter now. A little less reckless.

Gareth wonders how long that will last.

Marethari waits for them at the base of the path, arms crossed. When she hears them approach, she perks up, dropping her arms, and smiles at them, “Welcome back.”

Gareth hands her the amulet, which now feels cold and lifeless in his hands. It’s lost the red colouring that he remembers from before.

“Ma serannas, child. Your debt is paid in full.” Her smile slips from her face as she looks at Merrill, “It’s not too late to change your mind, da’len.”

Merrill squares her shoulders, stands straight, “Dareth shiral, Keeper.”

Nodding sadly, Marethari looks to Gareth, “Please, look after Merrill.”

“I will,” Gareth replies. “You have my word.”

 

 

 

 

Merrill’s oddly quiet when they leave the Dalish camp and for most of the trip back to Kirkwall. Her shoulders are hunched, face downcast, and she’s curled in on herself. She trails behind them, near Varric, her responses to his jokes and stories delayed. Or she just outright ignores them.

The journey back into Kirkwall is set to take most of what remains of the day. They’ll likely stop along the way to make camp for the night, then complete the trip in the morning.

Not quite in time for drinks at the Hanged Man, but Varric can deal.

Before Gareth can say that nothing happened on their journey back, he hears someone yelling up ahead on the pass.

“I thought you lot knew what you were doing!”

It’s followed by an incredibly manly sounding shriek.

“What am I paying you for?! Kill them!”

Glancing at Aveline, she’s already ready for battle. With one quick nod, she charges forward, Carver right on her heels. Gareth and Merrill follow, Varric bringing up the rear.

It just had to be spiders.

He’s not even afraid of spiders. He just has a great distaste for them and all of their legs. Why any creature needs that many legs, Gareth doesn’t know. The worst part, though, isn’t that spider exist. No, that would be the fact that they don’t have the reasonable sense to stay small. He remembers being thirteen and being ambushed by a spider guarding its nest in the fields that was the same size as a small dog.

He’d run straight home like a demon itself was on his heels.

Gareth counts ten spiders. Eight, now that they’ve joined the fray. Aveline took one out, while Carver took out another.

With the five of them, the fight is over quickly. It leaves behind a mess of spider carcasses, which have spilled their insides all along the path, creating a truly horrific odor of rotted meat and fetid water.

“You’re certainly capable.”

Gareth looks at the dwarf who spoke, flanked by two hired swords who look as though they’ve seen better days. The dwarf seems uninjured, “Are you alright?”

Jerking his head at the hired swords, the dwarf says, “No thanks to this lot. Can’t get a decent blade at a bargain anymore. You lot, though, you’re what a man needs – skilled enthusiasts.”

Gareth glances at Aveline and Carver, who are pointedly not making eye contact with the dwarf and are focused on scrubbing clean their weapons. He’s not even sure why it would be different; the dwarf’s addressing him.

“Name’s Javaris Tintop,” the dwarf introduces himself. “And I’m in need of someone’s help with dealing with the qunari.”

“‘Dealing with the qunari’? Oh, that doesn’t sound ominous at all,” Varric comments in a low voice.

“Those horn-heads in Kirkwall have a powder,” Javaris continues. “That explodes. And it’s just dust, no lyrium, no demons. Anyone can use it.”

“I doubt that they were eager to sell,” Gareth quips. He’s had no dealings with the qunari, but he knows enough about them that they won’t part with their recipe for whatever that powder of theirs is.

“That Arishok said I wasn’t worthy, that only their outcasts, the Tal-Vashoth, are that mercenary. I said, ‘Great, I’ll go talk to them’. Didn’t go over well,” Javaris mutters the last part. Then he continues in his best salesman voice, “But, it makes me think: maybe he’ll bargain with me if I get rid of something that bothers him more than, well, _me_.”

It clicks. “The Tal-Vashoth.”

Javaris nods, smile savage, “The Tal-Vashoth. Say, you up for some paid hunting?”

“We’ve had issues with Tal-Vashoth bandits along the coast,” Aveline remarks. “It’s been incredibly difficult and costly to root them out.”

“Yeah, they’ve got an entire camp up the Wounded Coast,” Javaris says. “Listen, you take them out, then meet me at the qunari compound two weeks from now, and we’ll both be richly rewarded. Richly.”

He hesitates, only briefly, then nods, “You have yourself a deal.”

The money will go towards financing their Deep Roads expedition. He has to keep that in mind. They need the coin and status that it could potentially bring them for protection; he needs to provide for his mother and brother. That needs to be his focus and Gareth has to remind himself of that.

“Excellent. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have business that needs attending to in Ostwick.”

Both of their parties are eager to put distance between themselves and the carnage of the battle, so they hurry on while Javaris and his hired swords leave. Gareth breathes a deep sigh of relief once they’re far enough down the path that he can finally no longer smell the stench of several dead spiders.

When darkness falls, they’re close enough to Kirkwall that it’s safe enough to camp along the road. Aveline volunteers to take the first watch and they settle in to dinner around their small fire.

“Do you have some place to stay in Kirkwall, Merrill?” Carver asks.

“Oh, I suppose I’ll have to stay in the Alienage, won’t I? Would it be hard to find a place?”

“I’m certain that you could find somewhere,” Gareth says. “There must be rooms to rent in the Alienage. Or something like that. But it would take time.”

“Listen Daisy, I can get you a room at the Hanged Man for a few days. Just until you get your feet under you in Kirkwall. Sound good?”

“Oh! Thank you, Varric! That would be lovely.”

 

 

 

 

Varric takes Merrill with him to the Hanged Man, while Aveline leaves them to return to the barracks in the Keep. She’s got a patrol in the afternoon and won’t be able to go on any further adventures with them for the next week. It’ll just be the five of them, with Merrill as their group’s newest addition.

Before they part ways, Merrill lays her hand on Gareth’s arm, “Thank you for everything. For all of your help. Will you come visit me? Once I’ve found myself a place, I mean. Not now. Maybe later? Or tomorrow? I… could use a friend.”

He rests his hand on top of hers, squeezes it gently, “I’d like that, Merrill.”

She beams at him, thanking him again, before she skips off to join Varric, who is waiting for her beside the entrance to the Hanged Man. She’s in good hands, he knows that. Varric’s clearly taken a shining to her as well, so he’ll make sure that she gets settled and finds a place that suits her.

Merrill will be fine.

Exhausted and drained from the long two days, Gareth and Carver return to Gamlen’s tiny apartment.

“I’m going to take a nap,” Carver announces, once they’re through the door. “I managed to find some work, down at the Docks this afternoon. Wake me in a few hours?”

“Alright.”

It leaves Gareth with little more to do than check the neat little stack of letters that are waiting for him on the kitchen table. Gamlen is off doing whatever it is that he does, and Leandra’s likely taking her petition for the Amell estate up to the Keep.

He’s a little surprised to find, slotted neatly in the middle of his letters, one for Carver. Gareth doesn’t recognize the writing on it, so he sets it aside for his brother to read when he wakes. The majority of the letters Gareth sets to discard – either flyers peppered with slurs about Fereldan refugees or offers of employment from some more than suspect individuals.

They might need the money but they’re not _that_ desperate. Not yet, anyway. Gareth is hoping that it won’t have to come to stooping that low.

When he gets to the end of the pile, there’s nothing. Crumpling up the letters, he discards them in the trash. Then, he softly whistles to Waffles, who hops up from his place curled in front of the fire. He huffs when he stands, and bumps his head against the small of Gareth’s back; his way of telling Gareth that he missed him.

He and his mabari leave the apartment, venturing out into Kirkwall to run some much needed domestic errands.

Gareth and Waffles return with the noon bell, waking Carver for a quick lunch, before Carver’s out the door for whatever work he’s managed to find.

Without much else to occupy his time for the day, Gareth curls up on the floor with Waffles in front of the fire. His head rests on his mabari’s side, a pillow that rises steadily up and down. Eventually, it lulls him to a quiet and peaceful rest.

His mother wakes him that evening, for dinner, and it’s another simple quiet meal.

“I turned in my petition to the viscount’s office today,” Leandra says. “I’m sorry I wasn’t home to greet you; I had to wait much longer than I expected.”

“It’s alright. We were both tired when we returned.” Gareth offers his mother a thin smile, “It’s done with. The amulet.”

Leandra pauses, hands freezing in place. Her nostrils flare, then she closes her eyes and lets out a deep breath and nods, “Good. Then I can stop worrying about that. She didn’t… want anything else?”

“No, our debt to her is repaid in full.”

“Thank the Maker.”

Carver pushes rice about his chipped bowl, “And we’re making good progress on saving for the expedition, aren’t we?”

He nods, “We should have the amount for Bartrand soon. We’ll be out of Lowtown before the year is out, mother. I promise.”

She smiles, blue eyes sparkling once more, “We’ll just have to see about that.”

 

 

 

 

What wakes Gareth in the dim hours of dawn, is the sound of parchment sliding against wood. He shoots awake, nearly jostling Carver enough to wake him. Though he hesitates to wake him, Gareth decides against it and crawls out over him to investigate.

All he finds is a small, folded piece of paper. It bears Athenril’s mark.

Gareth instantly relaxes.

Unfolding the note, he reads the lines:

‘ _Hawke,_

_You might be interested in something that’s come up. A contact of mine, a fellow by the name of Anso, is asking around for someone competent regarding a job, and I suggested you. He’s always paid well, so if I were you, I’d check into it before someone else snaps it up. He said he’ll be in the Lowtown Bazaar tonight. – Athenril._ ’

He refolds the note, sets it on the table, and gathers his clothes together. It’s going to be a long day, might as well begin it feeling refreshed.

When he returns from the bath house, the rest of his family is awake. His mother’s made breakfast, which she’s just setting on the table. Leandra smiles at him when he enters, which he returns. Gareth leaves his dirtied clothing in the basket for it, before joining his family.

“So, what are you planning to do today?” Leandra asks.

“I have a lead on some work,” Gareth replies. “But that won’t be till tonight. I think, though, that I’ll drop by the Hanged Man and check-in with Varric and Merrill.”

Leandra nods, “You new friend, correct? You should invite her over sometime, for dinner. It would be lovely to have company. Aveline and Varric as well.”

“Aveline’s busy this week with her duties, but I’m certain that Merrill and Varric would love to. I’ll ask.”

“Excellent. Let me know when, so that I can shop for something a little more… filling, than our usual fare.”

“I will.”

He ends up leaving for the Hanged Man a little later in the day than he’d planned to, roped into helping Carver with some errands and odd jobs that he picked up or found. They also need supplies for their planned excursion the next day to the Wounded Coast, to take on that band of Tal-Vashoth. Neither of them are keen on it, but it should pay; if not from that Javaris, then from the city guard.

Work is work, and neither of them are in a position to be picky about what they can find.

Carver leaves him, explaining that he managed to get another shift in down on the Docks. He doesn’t say what he’s doing, but Gareth thinks that it has to do with moving freight; Carver had come home sore the night before, his hands full of splinters.

“Be back in time for dinner and nightfall,” Gareth says.

“Yes, _mother_ ,” Carver says, rolling his eyes.

Gareth watches him leave, till Carver disappears into the crowds of Lowtown’s bazaar. Then, he turns into the Hanged Man.

The bar is loud, even so early in the day, and full of people. He’s waved down by an enthusiastic Merrill, who is sitting at a small corner table with Varric.

“I found a place!” Merrill beams, when Gareth comes to sit with them.

He accepts a pint from Edwina, one of the serving girls, and settles in, “You did? Merrill, that’s great news! I thought it would take longer.”

“Oh no, from what the landlady said, they’ve had problems with vacancies for the longest time,” Merrill replies. “So long as I pay my rent on time and keep the place relatively clean, it’s fine. Varric insisted that he pay for it, for now. Then he invited me to lunch, to celebrate!”

She has a mostly eaten bowl of the Hanged Man’s infamous mystery stew in front of her. Gareth gives it a wary eye, but says nothing about it. Instead, he smiles at Merrill, “I’m glad to hear you’ve found a place. Do you need any help moving in?”

“It’s already mostly furnished,” Varric replies, taking a long sip from his mug. “Seems the last tenant left in a hurry, left all his stuff behind.”

“Yes, so I don’t have to worry about any of that.” Merrill’s still smiling, but she asks him shyly, “Would you like to come over after?”

“I’d love to.”

 

 

 

 

Merrill’s apartment is a tiny two-room affair. The second room is more of an alcove, into which a bed has been crammed. Alongside the bed, which is lacking sheets, is a ramshackle table, a pair of chairs, and a cracked washbasin pushed into the corner. The place smells of mildew and that scent unique to uninhabited buildings.

It’s a smell that Gareth’s become very acquainted with, since he’s moved to Kirkwall.

“I can’t offer you anything to drink. Unless you want water. That’s… about all I have,” Merrill gestures towards the table and its chairs, which Varric and Gareth take.

“It’s fine, Merrill. We did just come from the pub, don’t worry about it.”

“Oh, yes. Right.” Bouncing on the balls of her feet, Merrill links her hands together in front of her, “And I… I wanted to thank you for bringing me here. Am I making a mess of it? I feel like I am.”

“You’re doing just fine, Daisy,” Varric assures her.

Gareth nods, “It’s alright.”

“Good. I haven’t had many friends, not even in my own clan. This is… tricky.”

Varric settles back into his chair, lacing his fingers together. He watches the two of them with a keen, but easily ignored eye.

“You didn’t have friends?”

“Only the Keeper, really. As the First, I was… isolated,” Merrill explains. “I studied magic and history, while the others were learning the Vir Tanadhal. I’m… it’s good that I left. I would have made for a terrible Keeper. I was never good with people.”

“You’re doing well,” Gareth replies, smiling. “You have Varric, Aveline, and myself. And I do believe that my brother is quite taken with you.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true,” Merrill’s voice takes on a thoughtful quality. “Still, I’m very grateful that you’ve… taken me in? I suppose that’s what you’ve done. So, thank you. Again. I’m going to stop talking now.”

Gareth smothers his laughter, “You can keep talking if you like, that’s what friends do: They listen.”

“I ramble. I’d rather not. I’ll try to get better at it, I promise.” Merrill pauses, “Was there something you needed? We’ll have to work out a time to practice magic. Probably outside of the city.”

“Well, we do have that trip to the Wounded Coast tomorrow. Will you be coming along?”

“Yes! Of course I’ll come! It’ll be nice to see more of the city and the area. I’ll need to become familiar with it. I do get lost easily; I have a terrible sense of direction.”

“You’ll get your bearings eventually,” Gareth reassures her. “Until then, you can come with us. Which… I have something for tonight, are either of you interested?”

Varric leans forward, balancing his elbows on the table, “And what sort of ‘thing’ are we talking about?”

“Of possible questionable legality, which is why we won’t be mentioning it to Aveline,” Gareth replies. “I got a tip from my old... employer about someone named Anso who is looking for some hired help. She says he pays well; it’s worth looking into.”

“Name’s not familiar,” Varric remarks. “Sounds dwarvish, though. So, when’s the meeting set for?”

“Tonight, after dark. At least, that’s what Athenril’s note said. You coming, Merrill?”

Merrill nods, “Definitely. It’s all very exciting, isn’t it?”

“Good, then we can meet at the Hanged Man. How does the eleventh bell sound?”

“Bell?”

“The Keep,” Gareth explains. “It rings bells to mark the hour. Eleventh bell after the sun sets.”

“Right, that sounds good. I’ll keep my ears open, then.”

“You do that, Daisy.”

With the matter settled and before they part ways for the day, Gareth says, “Oh, and just to let you both know, my mother has invited you both for dinner. Whenever you like.”

 

 

 

 

Gareth doesn’t even question how the Hanged Man has become their designated meeting place. Or that it’s where they go after any successful venture of theirs. He fully expects to spend an entire day, at least, doing nothing but drinking in there once they return from the Deep Roads. They’ll be able to afford it then, and more.

Tonight, however, they have something that needs to be done.

Of course, Carver doesn’t approve at all.

“So, we’re just going on Athenril’s word that he pays well? Need I remind how questionably legal her ventures were.”

“It’s worth checking out,” Gareth says. “We do need the money, Carver, and we’ve only got a limited amount of time to gather it in. It can’t hurt to look into it, at the very least.”

Carver’s shoulders sag and he sighs, “You have a point. That doesn’t mean that I have to _like_ it.”

Merrill’s bouncing on her feet, excited both to see them and to get started on whatever their latest endeavour is.

“It’s all rather exciting, isn’t it?”

“Sure, things of questionable legality are the height of excitement. Remind me to think that next time I deal with the Coterie,” Varric says.

“We have to _find_ this Anso first.”

“Shouldn’t be that difficult,” Carver replies. He points ahead of them, towards two shuttered stalls between which is one very nervous, shifty dwarf.

Well, that’s not fair. He doesn’t look shifty, but he keeps fidgeting where he stands. If he’s trying to look inocous and blend in, he’s failing absolutely miserably. He’s also dressed rather finely for Lowtown, his clothing fits him too well and is obviously tailored for him. Glancing up and down the streets, he jumps at even the slightest sound.

He has his back to them as they approach.

“Are you Anso?”

He jumps, letting out a muffled shriek that is _truly_ impressive.

“Sweet mother of partha!” He claps a hand over his chest, his too blue eyes impossibly wide. Shaking, he continues, “You… you can’t just sneak up on someone like that!”

Behind him, Gareth hears Carver muffling laughter.

He offers his best sympathetic expression, “I’m sorry for that. I thought you’d heard me coming. You _are_ Anso, then?”

“That would be me,” he nods. “And you… you’re that human Athenril mentioned? The one who is looking for work?”

“I am.”

Anso’s still fidgeting, jittery. He keeps glancing around fearfully, but he cringes whenever he looks _up_ and then hurriedly looks back at his feet. He must notice the look that Gareth’s giving him, because he smiles shakily and offers up an explanation: “My apologies. I’ve not been on the surface very long. I keep thinking that I’m going to fall up into all that sky at any moment.”

Varric chuckles, “Bartrand used to be like that. Got jumpy every time he stepped outside.”

It makes Carver snort, “I’d pay to see that.”

“But! I do need your help. Rather… badly, as a matter of fact. Some of my product has been… mislaid. The men who were supposed to deliver it decided not to. If you could retrieve my property, I could reward you handsomely…?”

It’s definitely not legal.

“What did these men steal from you?” Gareth asks. If they’ve stolen Anso’s product, chances are that not only is it valuable and illegal, but that they might have stolen from others as well. All’s fair in smuggling and war.

“D-did I say steal? I don’t know if I’d go _that_ far,” Anso stutters, trying for conversational and failing miserably. “They seemed like perfectly reasonable smugglers! They smiled and everything! The goods are valuable, however. And illegal. And my client wants them very, _very_ badly. You know how these templars can be.”

Gareth stares, “You’re smuggling lyrium to the _templars_?”

He can’t decide yet whether Anso’s brave or stupid, but he’s leaning heavily towards the latter. The Carta handle lyrium smuggling from the dwarves to the surface and Gareth’s knows well that they don’t take well to anyone cutting into their profits. He learned _that_ the hard way.

“Of course he is,” Carver sighs. “That’s just bloody _great_.”

“Don’t think the Carta would appreciate that much,” Varric adds.

Anso hushes them, looking about himself even more fearfully, “Keep your voices down! I should’ve just taken that stable cleaning job like mother said. I’m not cut out for this…”

“But it wasn’t the Carta that took your… product?”

“Oh no, they were human,” Anso replies. He wrings his hands, glancing over Gareth’s shoulder and back to him repeatedly. It’s as though he can’t stay still. “All I know is that their business is conducted out of a hovel in the alienage. If you have to kill them, then I guess that can’t be avoided. But I’m certain that they’ll be reasonable!”

Gareth doubts that.

“We’ll recover your stolen product,” Gareth replies. If only so some other idiot doesn’t run afoul of the Carta.

“Are you sure about this?” Carver asks, as they make their way towards the alienage and hovel that Anso described to them. It’s only a block down from Merrill’s apartment.

“It doesn’t sound like Carta,” Gareth replies. “More like opportunists hoping to get in on the lucrative lyrium trade. If nothing else, we get it back to Anso and it’s off the streets. Hopefully, he’ll have learned something from all of this.”

“I don’t know about this. Something’s not right. It’s all too… easy, too clean. I’d expect something by amateurs to have been more botched.”

“Set-up, maybe? A trap?”

“Not sure,” Varric replies, readying Bianca. “But we should be prepared for anything. Could be just me being paranoid.”

“Better paranoid than dead,” Carver says. He carefully draws his greatsword as they approach the hovel.

“Carver, you’ll go in first,” Gareth whispers, outlining their plan of attack. “Merrill, you cover Carver best you can. Take out anyone you see. Varric and I will bring up the rear, just in case it’s a trap.”

Weapons drawn, they enter the hovel.

It’s tight, cramped, and difficult for Varric to aim properly. The fight is messy and mostly conducted in close quarters. Merril barely avoids being disemboweled, but ends up with a nasty gash across her stomach.

Gareth heals it. Breathes in deep, lets the magic flow through and out of him. He pays closer to attention to it this time, the way that it flows, the whispers that he hears in his ears; that presence that he thought he imagined. Now that he’s got an idea of what to watch for, he notices it more clearly. It’s faint, only a mere brushing against his consciousness, but it’s there.

_Who are you?_

It’s a question to contemplate later, when not in the heat of battle.

Gareth blocks an incoming attack. His attacker goes down, a bolt protruding from his side. Gareth follows it up with a blow of his stave that sends its blade through his chest.

All in all, when the fight ends, they’re all breathing heavily and there’s seven bodies littering the ground. Merrill and Carver drag them into a pile in the middle of the hovel and, using a very controlled burst of magic, Merrill burns them. No need to cause a panic in the alienage with an infestation of corpses.

In a tiny room off of the main one, they find an unlocked chest.

When Gareth opens it, it’s empty.

“Well?”

“Nothing.”

“Shit. Trap then.”

“Most likely, yes.” Gareth pushes himself to his feet, stave in hand. He looks at his companions, offers a small smile. It’s meant to be comforting, but it doesn’t do the job. “Let’s go find out who set us up.”

Emerging from the hovel, Gareth’s a little dismayed to see that they’re surrounded. He counts fifteen before he has to force himself to stop. They’re outnumbered; it’s not looking good.

Shit. He’s led them all straight into a trap.

The apparent leader of the ambush party lowers her sword a fraction. There’s a deep frown etched into her face, emphasized by the heavy lines carved in, “Wait. That’s not the elf! Who is that?!”

“It doesn’t matter!” another snaps. “We were told to kill whoever entered the house!”

Gareth’s absolutely certain that they’re all going to die. Even as Varric launches a volley of bolts from Bianca, taking out two men. Merrill follows it up with a blast of stone, then whips out a series of hexes to paralyze and terrify a few more.

It leaves him and Carver to handle the physical fighting.

He loses himself to the rhythm of it. The burn in his muscles familiar. Block, counter, dodge, slash, stab. It’s a pattern. It’s like a dance. He keeps moving, uses his longer reach to keep his foes back. There’s a half circle of men around them, shrinking fast. They’ve taken down eight. Ten more.

Carver is carving his way through the enemy, leaving a trail of broken, bloodied corpses in his wake.

Keeping an eye and a sense on Carver, Gareth remains with Merrill and Varric. Though she’s clearly more comfortable fighting with magic than her spear, Merrill is more than competent. She’s actually terrifying. Her facial expression doesn’t change as she jabs her spear into the gap of one man’s armour, right at his neck. She pulls it back, a fount of blood spraying forth in fast pulses.

It’s not long before the ground is littered with the corpses of their enemies. They’re left standing, exhausted and a little sore, but alive.

He takes care of the soreness and any lingering injuries with a focused wave of healing magic. It has the bonus of rejuvenating them as well, wiping away a good amount of that exhaustion from the fight. They’ll need their energy to deal with whatever’s headed their way next.

“We should leave, before more come,” Gareth says.

“Should we…?” Merrill gestures at the bodies.

“Yes, but be quick about it. We don’t want to linger here any longer than necessary.”

Merrill burns the bodies, carefully keeping the flames contained. Once they’re reduced to little more than dark smudges on the paved roads, they quickly hurry towards the stairs that leave out of the alienage. The plan is to report back to Anso and press _him_ to find out just who set them up.

They don’t make it to the stairs.

Well, they do, but they’re blocked from making use of them.

He casually strolls out, hands on his hips and a smug look on his face, “I don’t know who you are, friend, but you’ve made a serious mistake coming here.”

Eyeing each of them, he snorts, then calls out, “Lieutenant! I want everyone in the clearing! Now!”

All Gareth can think in that instance is that they’ve survived this long only to die now. They’ll be little more than smudges on the road come morning, washed away by the tread of feet.

He readies his stave. If the man means to intimidate them into surrendering, they won’t. They’ll go down fighting.

Senses on high alert, Gareth waits for the incoming rush of feet.

It does not come.

There is a stumble of feet. Shuffling. The splash of blood to stone.

A single man stumbles onto the landing above them. Blood pours from his mouth as he stutters, “C-Captain…”

He collapses into a wet puddle, gurgling for a moment.

Then… nothing.

“Your men are dead.”

Gareth pauses at the deep voice. He looks up, towards where the guard stumbled from.

There’s someone else there.

He strides out slowly. He’s close to Gareth’s height, long pointed ears marking him as an elf. Along with the fact that he’s wearing no shoes. Aside from the shock of white hair, his most distinguishing features are the spiraling markings that seem to be etched into his skin.

He takes the stairs slowly, continuing to speak as he does, “And your trap has failed. I suggest running back to your master while you can.”

Gareth swallows the lump in his throat with a mouth gone dry. _Oh, but he’s handsome…_

He reaches the bottom of the stairs and is level with the captain when the latter makes a move.

Grabbing the elf’s shoulder, he snaps, “You’re going nowhere, _slave_!”

For a brief second, there’s stillness. Gareth holds his breath.

In a blur of motion, the elf spins, slapping the captain’s hand from his shoulder. The markings on his flesh glow bright, brilliant blue.

He plunges his hand straight _into_ the captain’s chest.

When he pulls it back, turning as he does, there’s a crush of blood from his gauntlet-clad fist. Something soft and bloody tumbles to the ground with a messy splat.

“I am _not_ a slave.”

_Maker_ , Gareth breathes out, all of the air rushing out of his lungs in a whoosh. _What have I gotten myself into?_


	5. in the eye of the storm

His mouth’s still dry, heart hammering against the lump in his throat, after the lifeless slaver hits the ground. He only absently notes that there’s no hole in the man’s chest.

That doesn’t stop the heat from rising in his cheeks.

Gareth prays to the Maker that his cheeks are not flushing. It’s the last thing he needs.

“I… apologize,” the elf says, looking to the ground. He glances back up after a moment, “When I asked Anso to provide a distraction for the hunters, I hadn’t known that they’d be so numerous.”

His voice, when he finds it, sounds only slightly uneven and he coughs to clear his throat before continuing, “Then these men were after you, I take it?”

“Correct,” the elf nods. “My name is Fenris. These men,” he indicates the deceased captain with a casual gesture, “were Imperial bounty hunters seeking to recover a magister’s lost property – namely myself.”

Fenris watches him, his large green eyes glowing in the dim light of the alienage, “They were trying to lure me into the open. Crude as their methods were, I couldn’t face them alone. Thankfully, Anso chose wisely.”

Gareth’s truly doing his best not to thank Anso and the Maker for this. Really, he is.

“Seems like a lot of effort for a single slave,” Gareth remarks. There were at least twenty men and women lying in wait outside of the hovel and only Fenris knows how many were waiting elsewhere. He’s not wrong about the crudeness of the trap, but it’s an effective one.

“It is.”

His eyes are drawn again to the markings, pale white against the warm brown of his skin. They aren’t glowing at present, but he remembers how they did when Fenris tore out that man’s heart.

“I take it that it has something to do with those markings.”

“Yes,” Fenris turns his arms, revealing more of the swirling lines of white that twine down the insides of his arms. “I imagine I must look strange to you. But I didn’t receive these markings by choice. Even so, they’ve served me well. Without them, I would still be a slave. And even with them, I wouldn’t have stood a chance against so many.”

He smiles, “If they were trying to recapture you, then I’m happy I got involved.”

Fenris ducks his head, almost shyly, “I have met few in my travels who have sought anything more than personal gain.”

His heart’s leapt back up into his throat again. He has to fight back a goofy smile. The one he makes when his heart starts fluttering.

Behind him, he can hear Carver mumbling something and the sound of flesh smacking against flesh.

“You didn’t need to lie to get my help,” Gareth says, watching as Fenris kneels down next to the body of the bounty hunter captain he killed.

“That remains to be seen,” Fenris replies absently. He tears open one of the pouches at the man’s waist, removing a folded sheaf of papers. He flicks through them absently, too fast for Gareth to get a good look at what they say. Then he shoves them into a pouch at his own waist, and stands again, “It’s as I thought. My former master accompanied them to the city. I know that you still have questions, but I must confront him before he flees. I will need your help.”

“And you have it,” Gareth says.

There’s a ghost of a smile on Fenris’ lips, and he solemnly says, “I will find a way to repay you. I swear it.”

“Now what?” Merrill chirps, making Gareth jump. He’d forgotten she was there.

“I will go ahead to the mansion in Hightown where he’s staying,” Fenris says. “Meet me there as soon as you can. We must enter before morning.”

Once Fenris is out of sight, Gareth’s shoulders sag and he lets out a great whoosh of air. He pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers, “Not one word, Carver. Not. One.”

There’s that smacking noise again. Carver mutters curses under his breath.

Merrill blinks, confused, “Did I miss something dirty?”

“Not at all, Daisy. Just some hopeless mooning.”

Gareth sighs. Tonight is just not his night.

 

 

 

 

Hightown at night is, to be frank, likely the most dangerous area of Kirkwall. They don’t make it far before they’re ambushed by a wave of guardsmen pretenders. It’s tedious and annoying, eating up precious time and stamina. If he had access to lyrium, it would likely be easier; as it is, though, he’s feeling a little light-headed.

Gareth says nothing of that. The other don’t need to know. He’s used to this; he can deal with it.

They make their way slowly through Hightown, past the Keep and the Chantry. Along the way, they’re ambushed once more by guardsmen pretenders.

“Think there’s money in getting rid of city bandits?”

“There’s always someone who will pay,” Varric replies. “We just gotta find out where their base is.”

“That’ll have to wait,” Gareth replies, wiping sweat from his brow. “We need to hurry if we’re to meet Fenris before dawn.”

Carver scowls, “Right. Wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.”

“What crawled into his boots and died?” Merrill whispers to Gareth.

He flushes, “It’s… nothing.”

“Oh, you have that look on your face. Like a halla just charged out of the brush at you.”

“Merrill, can we… talk about this later?”

“Oh, right. Yes, sorry.”

Gareth’s quite certain that they might not have found the estate at all – Fenris had failed to mention where specifically it was – if it wasn’t for Fenris waiting for them in the street outside. Once they’re within speaking distance, Fenris looks away from the mansion.

“No one has left the mansion, but I’ve heard nothing within,” Fenris says. “Danarius may already know we’re here. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Aside from him being a magister, anything else we should know?” Gareth asks.

“Nothing of importance. He may be a wealthy mage in the Imperium, but here he is a man who sweats like any other when death comes for him.”

“So, nothing to worry about then,” Varric mutters.

“He’s likely prepared magical defenses,” Gareth says. “Merrill and I can deal with those, if we come across them.”

“They will _not_ keep me from him,” Fenris says.

“Don’t worry, Fenris,” Merrill says. “We’re very good at this sort of thing. I think. We are, aren’t we?”

“We’ll do fine,” Gareth assures her. He looks to Fenris, “Lead the way.”

They enter Danarius’ mansion through the servants’ quarters; it’s a narrow door set into the wall at the rear of the property, in a dark alley. It’s all very cliché, Gareth thinks, but effective; the guards on patrol in Hightown don’t notice them slipping inside.

It’s a little suspicious that the door isn’t locked, but he files that away for later.

He was right that there were magical defenses.

The first room they enter, he can sense it. The smell of ash is heavy in the air. Carver and Fenris take two steps into the room, and four shades explode out of the floor in a whoosh of dark black smoke. They easily dispatch the shades, Merrill’s magic proving to be invaluable in that case.

There are more shades the further they press in.

Gareth’s worked up a fine sheen of sweat from the fights and keeping everyone in fighting shape, the smoke and ash from the shades sticking to skin of his face. He tries to wipe it away, but only succeeds in smearing it about; he’s definitely going to need to bathe before he heads home for the night.

He’s well aware from the fascinated look that Merrill keeps giving him that his eyes have taken on that glow again. But he shakes his head, they can discuss the finer points of his magical talents and abilities later, when they’re not fighting for their lives.

“He sends his _pets_ to fight us,” Fenris spits. “They will not stop us!”

Carver’s giving Gareth a thoroughly unimpressed look. It’s the same look that Carver’s been giving him since they entered the manor and Fenris opened up by shouting at his former master – wherever he may be.

Gareth has been ignoring them.

So much for the element of surprise, he thinks. But it’s obvious that Danarius expected company. The number of shades trapped within the manor would be more than enough to overwhelm even an experienced warrior. A group, not so much.

The farther into the manor they venture, Gareth can see more of how the enchantments work together. He can see the summoning glyphs painted onto the floor in what he can only assume is blood. The blood, though, is old and browned and the sheer intricacy of the triggers is astounding. It would take him and Merrill _hours_ to carefully dismantle them; he can see now why templars are so useful and dangerous when fighting magic.

Danarius has been thorough. Attempting to leave the first floor for the second in the large foyer with its grand staircase results in the summoning of five shades and yet another of those strange, magic using creatures.

“An arcane horror,” Merrill shouts, from across the room. She twists away from one of its spells, turning the motion seamlessly into one to launch one of her stone fists at it. “I’ll explain later!”

Gareth distracts it with a flash of veilfire, letting Fenris charge in to take its head off with one clean sweep of his great sword.

After the battle, there is nothing to be found.

It’s simply an abandoned mansion. Seemingly for some time, if the holes in the roof are anything to go by.

They regroup back in the grand foyer. Fenris looks exhausted, blood streaking down from a cut on his cheek.

Gareth resists the urge to reach out and smooth it over with his thumb. Instead, he lets a wash of healing magic flow through him, sealing the wound until all that’s left is the smudge of blood on Fenris’ cheek.

He sees the small flinch, but says nothing.

Fenris sighs, shoulders sagging, “Gone. I had hoped… but no, it doesn’t matter any longer. If there’s anything you wish to take, take it. I… need some air.”

And then he’s gone, striding out of the foyer and back into the cool night air.

Gareth watches him go, his heart dropping into his stomach.

“That went well,” Carver says. He’s covered head to toe in ash, smudged and dark from his sweat.

“Not much of value,” Varric tosses a heavy pouch between his hands. “Did find this, though. Here.”

He tosses it to Gareth. It clinks when it makes contact with his hand. Opening it, Gareth sees the warm yellow of gold and quickly closes it. He’ll have to count it in the safety of their apartment, but he’s quite sure that they’ve just made a sizeable dent in the money that they’ll need for the expedition. Anso didn’t lie; they’ve been rewarded quite handsomely.

Merrill wipes sooty sweat from her forehead, grinning with post-battle adrenalin, “Shall we join Fenris outside? I think I could use the air too.”

“Can’t keep him waiting, can we?” Carver mutters, quietly. His voice is tinged with venom and he scowls at his brother, who avoids meeting his eyes.

Fenris is waiting for them outside, leaning against one of the columns of the estate. He’s left his great sword leaning against it as well, not slung over his shoulder as it had been earlier. It’s still rather impressive that he’s able to wield it with such ease; it’s not what Gareth would have expected, given his rather lithe build.

“It never ends,” Fenris says. He must have heard them exit and approach him. “I escaped a land of dark magic only to have it hunt me at every turn. It is a plague burned into my flesh and my soul. And now… I find myself in the company of _yet another_ mage.”

Fenris strides over to him and Gareth is reminded that there is very little height difference between them. His heart leaps up into his throat; he’s going to either make a complete fool out of himself or end up very dead and he’s not too sure which is worse.

“I should have realized sooner what you really are,” Fenris says, casting a critical, narrowed eye on Gareth’s stave. “Tell me, then. What manner of mage are you? What is it you seek?”

He’s absolutely certain that he’s gone red in the face. His face feels hot and his tongue swollen; it keeps sticking to the roof of his mouth. The result is that his words tumble out before he can think better of them, “I don’t know. What do you think I seek?”

Fenris snorts, crosses his arms, “You are skilled – I know that much. But not in a manner I’m familiar with.”

Carver shoulders past him, placing himself halfway between Fenris and Gareth. With his arms crossed across his chest and using his extra height on Fenris, he glares at him, “If you have a problem with my brother, you have a problem with _me_.”

With a long sigh, Fenris pauses then continues, “I… imagine I appear ungrateful. If so, I apologize, for nothing could be further from the truth.” Running a hand through his white hair, Fenris continues, meeting Gareth’s eyes almost tentatively, “I did not find Danarius, but I still owe you a debt. Should you… find yourself in need of assistance I would gladly render it.”

Gareth smiles easily, tension bleeding out of him that he hadn’t realized was there. He has to gently elbow his way past his brother so that there’s no longer a wall of muscle and overprotective little brother between them.

“I’m planning an expedition in the coming months that I could likely use help with – if you’re willing that is.”

“Fair enough,” Fenris agrees. “I will help you in whatever way I can. Is there anything else?”

“He wasn’t thrilled with you a moment ago, and you’re just gonna let him help? Just like that?” Carver groans, shaking his head. There’s a red mark on his forehead, in the shape of a palm. “Typical.”

Fenris scowls at his feet, “He is not Danarius.” He addresses the next part to Gareth, “Whether you are anything like him remains to be seen.”

“Surely he must want something more than just a runaway slave,” Gareth says, frowning.

“He doesn’t want me at all, just the markings on my skin.” Fenris holds out his arms, turning them so that the swirling lines are prominently visible. “They are lyrium, burned into my flesh to provide the power that Danarius required of his _pet_ ,” Fenris spits the word out as though it’s something rotten, “And now he wishes his precious investment returned, even if he must rip it from my corpse.”

“Seems like a waste of a perfectly handsome elf.”

The blood drains out of his face. _He had not meant to say that out loud_.

Gareth’s about a heartbeat away from clamping his hand over his mouth and diving behind Carver again, his face a study in mortification.

He’s about to apologize when Fenris does the last thing that Gareth expected.

He laughs.

Actually, it’s more of a soft, deep chuckle, but still a laugh. He catches himself, though, and clears his throat, glancing away but the corners of his lips are quirked up _slightly_. So much so that Gareth wonders if he’s just imagining it.

“Should you have need of me, I will remain here. If Danarius wishes his mansion returned, he can try to claim it.”

Gareth relaxes, relief washing through him. Then he remembers.

“You up for an excursion to the Wounded Coast tomorrow?”

Fenris blinks. Then says solemnly, “I will prepare for it. Where will we meet?”

“City gates, tenth bell.”

He nods, “I will see you there then, Hawke.”

When they part company with Fenris, Gareth feels light and there’s a bounce in his step that wasn’t there before. He’s well aware that he’s grinning like an idiot, because he hears Carver’s face make contact with his palm again.

 

 

 

 

The last thing that Gareth expects to find at the gates of Kirkwall is Aveline.

“Aveline? What are you doing here? I thought you were busy today.”

“I was,” Aveline replies. “The meetings with the viscount ended early and _I_ now set the patrol schedule along with allocating who goes where and deals with what. So, here I am.”

“We won’t be back till day after tomorrow, at the earliest,” Gareth warns. “You sure it’s alright for you to be away for so long?”

“I simply informed the viscount that some… valuable intelligence had come to light regarding some Tal-Vashoth raiders on the Wounded Coast. As you can imagine, his excellency and the seneschal were more than pleased at my proposed initiative.”

“You… told the viscount?”

“Well, I told him a version of what we’re doing. I left out a bit that he didn’t need to know.”

Gareth shrugs, “You’re always welcome to come along, Aveline.”

“Good, then shall we be off?”

He can’t see Fenris yet, so Gareth shakes his head, “Actually, we’re waiting on someone.”

“Who?” Aveline frowns, a deep furrow forming between her eyebrows. “Everyone’s already here.”

He spots the shock of white hair first – easily, it stands out amid the sea of people. His heart flutters against his ribs briefly, then makes a leap into his throat. Gareth smiles when he sees Fenris approaching, looking a little sheepish and uncomfortable, but there nonetheless.

“I apologize for my lateness,” Fenris says. “I… got lost on my way.”

“You’re here now, that’s what matters.”

Aveline stands straighter, giving Fenris a once-over, “And you are?”

“Aveline, this is Fenris. Fenris, this is Aveline,” Gareth says, stepping forward to defuse what could quickly become a dangerous situation. “He’s a new friend of mine. And he’s agreed to help with the Tal-Vashoth. You don’t mind, do you?”

“I have no issue with it,” Aveline says, at long last.

“Good, then we should be off if we want to reach the coast by this afternoon.”

 

 

 

 

Gareth’s grateful when they finally stop to make camp for the night. He volunteers to collect firewood, needing to get away from the tension of their motley little group for a while. The quiet will do his mind a world of good.

He’d known when they left that things were going to be awkward, maybe even a little hostile. Especially once Aveline found out just _how_ he’d met Fenris. The moment that had come out, they’d all been subjected to Aveline’s glares and then, later, Aveline had pulled him aside to give him a lecture about how she thought he was better than that.

“I couldn’t just let him go alone. He needed the help – needed us. What was I to do? Say no?”

Aveline sighed, “One of these days, Gareth, that bleeding heart of yours is going to get you into a lot of trouble. That you might not be able to get out of.”

“I’ll be fine. I can look after myself.”

And it’s true. He knows what he’s doing. But if he can help, then he’s going to. Gareth himself will be alright. No one needs to worry about him; he can manage.

Camp that night is… awkward.

As the most experienced of their three warriors, Aveline spends much of it quizzing Fenris on his experience. While she seems impressed, it becomes clear to Gareth that Carver _must_ have mentioned something to her about his little crush on their little group’s newest member. She takes it upon herself to make absolutely certain to place herself between them when it comes time to bed down for the night.

He scowls at her, “I am a grown man, Aveline.”

“I’m simply looking out for my friend,” Aveline replies. She won’t meet his eyes.

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” Gareth mutters, settling in. He uses his pack as a pillow, “I’m quite certain that he doesn’t like mages. So it’s not going to go anywhere. You can stop acting like a disapproving Mother hen.”

She snorts, “If that’s what you think, then you’re not as perceptive as I thought.”

 

 

 

 

For the most part, their journey along the Wounded Coast is uneventful. For which Gareth will be eternally grateful. Even Aveline seems to have warmed up to Fenris… somewhat.

They encounter a group of Tal-Vashoth bandits along the coast and it’s the first time that Gareth gets to try out some of the new spells that Merrill’s been teaching him.

“You’re very good at this,” Merrill remarks, twirling her spear to flick the blood from its blade. “It took me months to even master the basics of spirit magic, but it seems to come to your naturally.”

“I was never any good at anything but healing,” Gareth replies. “My father… he thought it had to do with how my magic awakened. I was much younger than him.”

It’s just the two of them, at the rear of the group, with their three warriors ahead discussing tactics. And Varric is busily collecting his bolts from where they’re strewn across the battlefield. It leaves the two of them plenty of time and space to talk magic.

“How old were you? If you don’t mind my asking.”

Gareth frowns, “I would’ve been… about five years? We were living in Highever at the time and my parents were hopeful that none of us had magic. But a man stumbled into our home after having been attacked by bandits. We had to flee when… when I healed him. It nearly killed me.”

“I lit a hunter’s hair on fire,” Merrill says, tone conversational. “But that’s very young. I was… oh, about ten I think when my magic awakened. And you healed someone?”

He nods. “We didn’t stick around long after, but my Mother says I pulled him back from the brink of death.”

“That’s impressive.” Merrill taps her finger against her bottom lip. “I’ve never heard of spirit healers appearing so young, though. All of the lore we have states that it takes many years of training to become one. Yet you, essentially, presented as one. What were you thinking at the time? You would have had to have bonded with your spirit right at that moment to save him as you did.”

“You’re going to write this all down later, aren’t you?”

“Of course! It’s a Keeper’s job to remember, you know.” Merrill beams, chest puffing out. “Oh, even though I’m not going to be one anymore, it’s still important. Even if I’ve left my clan, they would appreciate new knowledge on spirit healers. But I’m babbling again. Tell me what it was like.”

Gareth pauses, scraping the blade of his stave against the ground in abstract patterns as he thinks. After several long moments, he speaks, “It’s… difficult to explain. And I’m not even sure I can put it into words. All I can remember is thinking ‘I can help’. Then there was a rush of warm, bright power flowing through me and into him. I could _feel_ his life in that instant, and I knew he would live. The last thing I remember… there was a voice. And it said that it would be alright. That I could rest. After that, nothing. I passed out.”

“Hmm… it’s likely a Spirit of Compassion, then,” Merrill says, still tapping her chin. “They’re not particularly common. And given how early your magic manifested and the way that it did… it had likely been watching over you for some time. Then, when you felt you could help, it bonded to you. You’re very lucky.”

“So you’ve said.”

“Healing magic is very hard and very difficult to learn, more so to master. Keepers know herbal lore, what herbs and potions to brew will help with bringing down a fever and aide in healing. But more than that is very rare. The Wandering Keeper who brought me to Marethari, she was a spirit healer. I think one of only two known of.”

“Wandering Keeper?”

“We can only have so many mages in one clan,” Merrill says. “But magic is very precious to us. There was already a First and Second in the clan I was born in, so I was brought to Clan Sabrae by Keeper Nerys. Wandering Keepers typically travel from one clan to another, bringing news, lore, items, and occasionally young mages. They’re what connect each clan together. Keeper Nerys wanted to keep me, but she already had a First of her own. Bryn was very kind to me; they would make a good Wandering Keeper, one day.”

“That’s fascinating, Merrill.”

“I wasn’t rambling again, was I?”

“No,” Gareth says, smiling. “It was very informative. Thank you.”

“Well, you’re very welcome.”

Merrill’s grinning, one of those big wide ones that split her face and make her look far younger than she actually is. When they set off again, there’s a bounce in her step and she’s practically skipping along the well worn path as they make their way down the coast.

And if Gareth avoids looking at the sea because it makes his stomach roil in remembrance, well, he’s the only one to know.

The sun’s high in the sky when they finally see any signs of the Tal-Vashoth raiders.

“You endanger yourself, human!” Someone bellows from above them. “Do not say you were unwarned!”

Carver rolls his shoulders, “Finally.”

“Wait,” Gareth says, holding up a hand as he steps forward. “You’re not with the raiders, are you?”

A little ways above them, standing on a ridge of the mountainous coastline, is a qunari. He regards them warily, with his dark eyes, before he speaks in that same deep, booming voice.

“I have turned my back on my kin for a second time,” he acknowledges, with a bow of his head. “I did not like my… role, so I left the Qun. I do not wish to be a murdering thief, so I left these Tal-Vashoth to warn their victims.”

Gareth nods, then shouts back, “I am more than capable of meeting any threat.”

There’s a hint of a smirk on the qunari’s face as he regards them, but it vanishes quickly. “So I see. I had expected to warn a caravan, not well-equipped trackers. Ahead, you will find the den of my kind. If you are as skilled as you look, it would please me if you killed him.”

He exchanges a look with his brother. Carver shrugs. They hadn’t expected this.

The qunari straightens, strides down from his perch towards them. In person, he’s even taller – broad in the shoulders and he towers over all of them easily. He regards each of them seriously, eyes dark and stern, then nods after a moment.

“You are no victim,” he states. “So now, I will leave.”

“Very well,” Gareth says, stepping aside. He watches the qunari stride away from them, purpose in his steps, until he vanishes around a curve in the path. He looks back and Carver is giving him a stern look. “What?”

“You let him go, just like that?”

“He wasn’t about to help us,” Gareth replies. “He’s washed his hands of these raiders. Better to let him go to start again than force him to do something he doesn’t want to.”

Carver shrugs and sighs, “You know best… _brother_.”

He ignores the barbed tone.

 

 

 

 

Three hours of hard fighting later, they emerge from the Tal-Vashoth raiders cavern back into the quickly dimming light of day.

Fenris has found his place in their group and, though Carver’s still giving him a bit of a cold shoulder, he’s won Aveline over. For the most part. Likely because of his accomplishments as a warrior – he fits in well with their group, filling in for Gareth on the front lines and allowing him and Merrill to focus on support and damage respectively.

But Fenris keeps regarding him with… almost wary confusion. As though he’s not too sure what to make of him. He keeps his distance, but Gareth knows he’s not imagining his eyes on him. They feel heavy, weighted, but there’s no judgment in them. It’s much more than he could have ever asked for. Maybe Aveline’s right; maybe he _does_ still have a chance.

His heart swells at the thought.

 

 

 

 

They return to Kirkwall mid-morning the next day.

“I’ll present my report to the Viscount,” Aveline says. “I take it you’ll be at the Hanged Man later today?”

Gareth nods, “I need to stop at the Chantry first.”

“I’m heading straight there. You coming Daisy? Junior?”

Carver shrugs, “Drinks would be nice.”

“Hmm, maybe?” Merrill says. “I do need to run some errands first.”

“You should not go to the Chantry alone,” Fenris says. He regards Gareth with slightly narrowed eyes. “I will go with you.”

His heart flip-flops in his chest and his throat swells up. _He cares_.

Gareth is quick to silence that voice. He’s getting ahead of himself; they’ve only known each other a handful of days. Letting his crush get the better of him is the absolute worst thing he could do.

“Alright, and I’ll come with the both of you as far as the Keep.”

Their group splits up, each of them going their separate ways. The last look at Carver that Gareth gets before he’s out of sight, is of his little brother’s dreamy look as he listens intently to Merrill tell a story – or relate something she found of interest about their latest outing.

His brother may tease him about his obvious crush, but Gareth knows he’s just as bad.

Aveline leaves them at the Keep. There’s nothing but silence between him and Fenris as they make their way towards the Chantry. It’s not uncomfortable or awkward, but… oddly companionable. Gareth likes it; it reminds him a little of times with Bethany, the easy, quiet companionship he enjoyed with her. Or the few times when he and Carver would just sit together, saying nothing and simply being together.

He wishes that their relationship wasn’t so strained, but he doesn’t know how to fix it.

Gareth remembers Sebastian from his confrontation with Elthina in the Chantry courtyard. He’s a difficult man to forget with his red hair and the polished white of his armour. Upon entering the Chantry, Sebastian is not far from the entrance, finishing up a conversation with another initiate.

He waits for him to finish his conversation before he approaches, clearing his throat.

“Sebastian?” Once he’s sure he has Sebastian’s attention, he inclines his head a little, then continues. “Your family can rest now. Their killers are dead.”

Sebastian blinks, eyes going wide. “Who are–? Oh! My post to the Chanters’ Board? Her Grace let that stay…? I had thought no one – but you say that you’ve killed them?”

Gareth nods.

He smiles, slow and wide and it crinkles his bright blue eyes. Sebastian bows to Gareth. “You have my eternal gratitude, serah! It’s comforting to think that my parents might now rest easily in their graves.”

“I hope their deaths bring you peace,” Gareth says. He wants to reach out, to offer comfort of some kind, but that seems strange to do with a complete stranger. “Or at least grant you some closure. I know how… difficult it can be to lose family violently.”

“It’s painful, yes,” Sebastian agrees. He rests a hand lightly on Gareth’s forearm, squeezes it for a moment, then drops his hand. His smile is soft and sad. “But knowing that their killers have been brought to justice brings me some amount of peace.”

Taking a deep breath, Sebastian straightens his shoulders. “Thank you – more than I can say. I did not expect anyone else to take up this cause but myself.” He removes a small leather coin purse from one of the pouches about his waist and presses it into Gareth’s hand; he has to close Gareth’s fingers around it himself. “Consider this an advance. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must meet with the viscount.”

He leaves Gareth standing there, coin purse in hand, feeling a little like he just took advantage of someone’s grief.

“Did you not expect to be paid?” Fenris asks, breaking the silence at long last.

“I was going to turn it down, yes. It wouldn’t be fair to take advantage of someone’s grief.”

“He was grateful,” Fenris replies. “And I’m assuming that his post promised a reward. Typically, requests to the Chanters’ Board result in some kind of compensation for those who answer them.”

The two of them wander out of the Chantry, meandering along towards where Fenris’ new manor is. Their pace is sedate, and they wind their way through the crowds.

“Usually, yes. Not always in the form of coin, but sometimes,” Gareth says. “But it feels wrong to take advantage of someone who only wants justice for their family.”

Fenris grunts, and says nothing more on the matter.

It’s something, because Gareth’s quite certain that they would have gone in circles. While he’s grateful to have more coin to put towards his goal of becoming a partner in the expedition, he absolutely won’t do so by taking advantage of others. He’ll find some way to make it up to Sebastian, to repay him for his generosity.

And the coin will go towards creating a better life for his Mother and Carver. That’s the entire point of joining the expedition. Their Mother deserves better than sharing a narrow, rickety bunk with their uncle, looking after a dingy little apartment that _barely_ fits the four of them. After everything that Leandra gave up for them, it’s about time that they gave back to her.

Gareth keeps that in mind. He has to keep reminding himself of the goal and the, well, prize that’s waiting for them at the end. Maybe Carver doesn’t care, but they can’t go on the way that they have been.

It’ll be nice, Gareth thinks, to set down roots again.

 

 

 

 

Gareth finds a ratty, folded piece of paper that’s signed Javaris Tintop some days later. It’s full of grand promises for the powder and how much of a cut that Gareth’s going to get for doing the dwarf’s dirty work.

It’s something, at least.

They received _some_ recognition from the city for their having taken out that den of Tal-Vashoth raiders, but very little in the way of a monetary reward. Aveline had delivered the news, which came with a neat little plaque – that has mysteriously gone missing – that was issued for ‘deeds done in serve to the city of Kirkwall and its citizens’.

Carver’s picked up some more work down on the docks and in Lowtown, leaving Gareth alone for the day. And last he heard, Varric was helping Merrill with something in the Alienage – shopping, he thinks, but he isn’t too sure. Aveline is, as she frequently is these days, tied up with her new duties as the incoming guard-captain.

That’s how Gareth ends up showing up on Fenris’ doorstep.

“Hawke,” Fenris greets him. “What can I help you with?”

“I’m going down to the qunari compound,” Gareth explains. “And I’d rather not go alone. Would you come with me?”

“Of course.”

Navigating their way down to the compound, which is just on the edge of Lowtown and is next to the docks, there are butterflies fluttering in Gareth’s stomach. It’s not a place that he’s been to before, he’s only ventured close to it on occasion. He’s never visited it himself.

He stops, facing the guard at the gate, Fenris a little ways behind him.

“Let me pass. I have business with the dwarf, Javaris, and your Arishok.”

The guard – a qunari – regards him with a stern, blank look, then nods. “The short one, yes. Enter if you must, basra.”

The first to spot the two of them is Javaris. He grins, rubbing his hands together, when he sees them approaching.

“Ah! My right hand arrives!” He turns to the assembled qunari, gesturing at them dismissively. “Summon your Arishok – the bargain is done!”

Two of the qunari break away, going towards a large building that’s been set aside to shelter them.

Javaris, still grinning, says out of the corner of his mouth, “About time you showed, I’ve been waiting for _hours_.”

When the Arishok appears, Gareth has definite second thoughts about this venture.

Even for a qunari, the Arishok is huge. He stands well over a head over his men, sporting an impressive set of horns that only serve to make him appear taller. Although he’s unarmed, his body ripples with power and muscle. The Arishok could very easily crush each of them. Gareth has the distinct image, suddenly, of the Arishok snapping his back over his knee.

He takes his seat before them on the massive, benchlike throne. It’s very much like he’s here to hear court.

“Arishokost. Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun,” Fenris intones.

The Arishok blinks, head tilting back. “The Qun from an elf? The madness of this… place.”

His voice is very deep, sounding like the rumble of a rockslide. It conjures up images of an unstoppable force.

“Friend of yours?” Gareth asks, softly.

Fenris gives him a meaningful look, “Friend of no one.”

“Yes, well, that said,” Javaris interrupts. “I am here to report that your hated Tal-Vashoth were felled one and all. Right?” He glances at Gareth, but gives him no time to respond. “Yes, they were! So, I’m ready to open negotiations. For the explosive powder. As we agreed.”

The Arishok doesn’t even hesitate. “No.”

Javaris stares, blinks, then looks imploringly to Gareth. “He’s not getting it. Make your chatty elf say something.”

“Any insight that would help?” Gareth asks, tilting his head towards Fenris.

“Qunari do not abandon a debt.” Fenris half-shrugs, then turns his attention to the Arishok. “I humbly request clarification from the Arishok.”

“I have a growing lack of disgust for you,” the Arishok says, regarding Gareth with his eyes like two coals. His head twitches a little in Javaris’ direction. “The dwarf imagined a deal for the gaatlok. He invented a task to prove his worth when he has none.”

Fenris nods.” Then we have wrongly inserted ourselves in your affairs. Would you have us kill this dwarf?”

“Wait.” Javaris’ mouth drops open. “What now?”

The Arishok shakes his head, “If you faced Tal-Vashoth, he is not worthy of dying to you, as he was not worthy of dying to them. But you.” He points at Gareth, head tilting foward. “You keep good company. Let him live. And leave.”

He takes a leaf out of Carver’s book, for once.

“He had big plans for your recipe,” Gareth says. “He promised me payment in exchange.”

“Dwarf,” the Arishok’s head twist to Javaris, glaring at him. “Did your imaginary bargain make promises on _my_ behalf?”

Javaris quails before the Arishok, fumbling his hands together, and staring at his feet. “I… expected your wisdom to be more... profitable.”

The Arishok stands, “Then you will pay. On _my_ behalf.”

Javaris puffs up, feathers ruffled. He slams a pouch of coin into Gareth’s hand, “Sod it all! Take your coin! Take whatever!” As he leaves the compound, Gareth catches the tail end of his angry mutterings. “Horn-head oxmen and mongrel dog lords… suck your own powder and blow your head off!”

The Arishok turns his attention back to Gareth, “You will leave as well, human. There’s no more coin for you here.”

Gareth nods, turns on his heel, and leaves. He’s glad to put the compound at his back.

The gate to the compound slams closed behind them and Gareth’s shoulder relax. He heaves a sigh of relief, tension bleeding out of him. That was far more stressful than he’d thought it would be.

Fenris clears his throat. He looks away from Gareth, staring instead at his feet. “It… occurs to me that we don’t know each other well. Danarius left behind an expansive wine cellar. Would you… care for a drink?”

His heart leaps into his throat and he smiles. “I’d love to.”

That… that wasn’t eager and desperate at all, was it? Gareth’s starting to realize that he really _is_ a lost cause. There’s really nothing to be done about it now. He likes Fenris. He barely knows Fenris, but he _likes_ him.

And he has no idea what to do about it.

The silence that had once been so companionable is… awkward, to say the least, as they retrace their steps back up into Hightown. Fenris leads him through the winding back streets and alleys towards the rear entrance to the manor that he’s begun to call home.

Very little about the place has changed, Gareth notices. There’s still gaping holes in the ceiling, crumbling plaster, and that distinct smell that all abandoned and derelict buildings seem to have. He follows Fenris up through what had been the servants’ quarters to the master wing of the manor.

The room is just as rundown as the rest of the manor, but it has a little more of a lived in feel.

Fenris has pushed a bed into a corner, its headboard cracked down the middle. Aside from that, there’s two benches arranged in front of the large fireplace, and a table and chairs shoved up against another wall. The table is lined with numerous wine bottles, some of which are empty and have tipped over; permeating the entire room with the smell of spirits.

He takes a seat on one of the benches while Fenris lights the fire, then goes over to the table to sort through an array of bottles. He comes back with two, holding one out to Gareth, his gauntlets discarded to the table.

“Agreggio Pavali,” Fenris says in explanation. “There are six bottles in the cellar.”

Sniffing at the mouth of the bottle, he can make out faint notes of something sweet and floral. When he swallows it down, it’s smooth and pleasantly burns the back of his throat. It tastes nothing like the ale that the Hanged Man serves – nor the bottles his parents would save and scrimp for their anniversary; the Agreggio is definitely worth its weight in gold, he thinks.

He likes it. Much more than he should, he thinks. Or, and Gareth peeks shyly at Fenris, maybe it’s just the company.

Fenris stares at the bottle in his hand for a long moment. “Danarius used to have me pour it for his guests. My appearance intimidated them, he said. Which he enjoyed.”

“I can’t imagine why they would be put off,” Gareth says, alcohol making him feel bold. Right after he says it, he wishes he could curl into a ball and die. He’s being ridiculous.

“You say what’s on your mind, I’ll give you that,” Fenris says. He takes a long drink from the bottle, then wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. He stares at the bottle for a long while, then in one fluid motion, hurls it at the wall.

The bottle shatters on impact, splattering its contents on the wall. It will leave quite the stain.

“It’s good that I can still take pleasure in the small things.”

Gareth shifts on the bench, leaning towards Fenris a little. “You’ve had a difficult life.”

“I’d... rather not speak more of it.”

“Are you certain?” Gareth asks, looking up at him. “I’m willing to listen.”

“To my whining?” Fenris says, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a smile. “How charitable of you.”

A thousand different flirtatious comebacks pop into his head, but Gareth uses none of them. He genuinely _wants_ to know Fenris better. Whatever he wants to share, Gareth will listen – no matter what. Hopefully, they’re off to a good start.

To fill the silence, Gareth takes another drink. The Agreggio settles into his stomach, which blossoms upwards with warmth. His throat tingles.

“For so long, I’ve wanted to leave my past behind me, but it won’t stay there.” Fenris sits on the bench that’s perpendicular to Gareth’s, forearms resting on his knees. He glances at Gareth, then away again. “Tell me: have you ever wanted to return to Ferelden?”

It’s a much more loaded question than Fenris probably intended.

He remembers his father, ravaged by the Blight.

Bethany staring up at him with glassy eyes. Blood from her mouth and her body crushed.

“I…” He swallows, squeezes his eyes closed. But the images don’t go away. “I don’t have a home to return to.”

He flexes his fingers. Recalls how warm Bethany had been for a few moments, how fast the chill had settled in. There had been no spark in her eyes when he had last looked. She had lain in his arms, dead, and he could do _nothing_ for her.

_What’s the point of having magic if I can’t use it to save others?_

He squeezes his eyes closed, ignores the hitch in his breath, and hopes Fenris doesn’t notice that he’s falling apart inside. He sucks in a deep breath, takes another drink. The Agreggio tingles as it goes down.

“The Blight is over,” Fenris continues, staring into the fire. “You could rebuild what you lost. Do you truly not want to?”

He drinks to steel himself, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “We have family and a home here. My Mother – she was originally from Kirkwall. This is where our heritage begins.”

His father’s family is a mystery. Beyond them, he had no one.

Fenris nods. “Having a place where you can put down roots… I understand.” He sounds rather wistful as he continues, “Still to have that option… must be gratifying.”

“Do you intend to stay in Kirkwall?” Gareth asks. He’s nearly finished the bottle, he realizes absently.

“I haven’t decided,” Fenris says with a shrug. “For now, it’s as good as any other place. I… would return to Seheron if I could. But… there is no life for me there.”

“You’re from there?”

“So I’ve been told,” Fenris replies. “I… have no memories from before I received the markings. What little I do know was… told to me after by others. However much is true or not, I don’t know.”

There’s little to say in response to that. Instead, Gareth drains what’s left of the Agreggio. He feels a little bit light-headed, but not close to drunk; it’ll take a few more bottles before he’s there.

Eventually, the silence becomes too much for him. It rings in his ears. And he wants to wipe that image of Bethany’s bloodied face from his mind, so he asks, “You’ve been on the run a long time, then?”

Fenris leans back on his bench, eyes lit and sparkling from the fire. “Three years, now. Danarius has a way of finding me – perhaps it’s the markings? Whatever the means, it never takes him long to follow. This is the first time I’ve given him pause.” Fenris shrugs. “I suppose there are advantages in numbers.”

“You’ve not sought help before? Surely there would be others who would have helped you.”

“There were hirelings when I could steal the coin, but never anyone of any substance – until _you_.” Fenris leans back, grasps another two bottles and hands one to Gareth. “I couldn’t ask anyone else to put their life in danger for mine. Besides which, the hunters were never as numerous as they were this time. Previously, it was nothing I couldn’t handle on my own.”

“You must have seen much of Thedas,” Gareth says, unable to keep the wanderlust out of his voice. He drinks deeply – this wine is more rich, like velvet on his tongue. “I have to admit, I’ve seen very little.”

“Not as much as you’re imagining,” Fenris replies. “When you’re on the run, you don’t have much time to admire the sights. But I’ve seen much of Nevarra and the Free Marches – a little of northern Orlais. But I’ve never been as far south as Ferelden.”

“Kirkwall is the farthest north I’ve been. Before the… Blight, I hadn’t traveled much. My family lived briefly in Highever, to the north, but we moved when I was very young and settled in Lothering. I’ve known little else besides that.”

Fenris drinks, then comments, “Kirkwall must have been very different.”

“It was, at first. Lothering was little more than a collection of buildings – we barely counted as a village. But Kirkwall is huge, there’s always people everywhere. There’s no… stillness or privacy. Sometimes, I miss the wide open plains and hills that made up the countryside. But I can’t go back.”

Fenris is quiet for a long moment, then he asks softly, “Why can’t you? If it’s too personal an answer, you do not need to–”

“My sister died as we fled Lothering,” Gareth replies. The words catch in his throat, stick to his tongue. He stares at the fire, eyes burning, and has to blink back tears. “The darkspawn killed her – an ogre. There was… nothing I could do.”

“I… am sorry,” Fenris says. He hesitates, then slowly reaches over and squeezes Gareth’s shoulder. He drops his hand quickly. “I’m afraid I don’t know what to say to that.”

Gareth shakes his head, breathing hitching with the force of his suppressed sobs, “You don’t have to say anything. It’s alright. She was beautiful and so young – sometimes, I think it would have been better if I had been the one in her place.”

“You cannot blame yourself for something you could not control,” Fenris says, slowly. It’s obvious he’s unused to comforting others. “The darkspawn killed your sister – not you. If it… helps, I have heard that she will be at peace at the Maker’s side.”

Gareth nods. He’s clung to that tightly, the hope that wherever Bethany is, she’s in a better place.

“If anyone is going to the Maker’s side, it would be Bethany,” Gareth says, softly. He can’t seem to stop shaking and drinks to try and stop it.

He misses Bethany. Her laugh, her smile, the bright sparkle in her eyes. He misses her innate sweetness and her kindness. She was the balm to Carver’s rough edges, smoothing everything together. More than anything, she had been his rock.

And in the moment that she needed him most, he could do nothing.

He couldn’t save her.

_What use is my magic if I couldn’t save you?_

Gareth closes his eyes, tips his head back, and downs almost an entire bottle of wine. It burns on the way down. He doesn’t care. His last words to Bethany echo loudly in his mind.

“ _I will protect Mother and Carver. I will keep them safe._ ”

 

 

 

 

Somehow, they both end up sprawled on the floor. Gareth stopped counting the bottles after the fourth one.

He blames the liquor for the loss of his filter.

“If you’re looking to find a home, you could stay.”

He stares at Fenris’ profile, cast into relief by the flickering light of the fire. If he moves his hand a little more, their hands would be touching. He wonders what it would be like to hold Fenris’ hand.

“I could see myself staying,” Fenris says, turning his head. He looks at Gareth, green eyes alight and catlike in the firelight. “For the right reasons.”

His throat tightens. Now, the tension between them is so thick it could be cut with a knife.

“I should thank you again for helping me with the hunters.” Fenris breaks the moment first, glancing away. But he looks back to Gareth, his mouth quirking up into a smirk and it sends shivers down Gareth’s spine. “Had I known Anso would find me a man so capable, I might have asked him to look sooner.”

He sucks in a breath through a throat gone dry. “Maybe _I_ should be thanking Anso.”

Fenris’ smirk softens into a smile, warm and soft around its edges. “Maybe you should.”

The light coming in through the holes in the ceiling has dimmed considerably, leaving the fire as their only source of light. Fenris glances away for a moment, but he’s still smiling and it’s making Gareth’s stomach do flip-flops. It feels like he’s swallowed a glass full of butterflies.

“Perhaps,” Fenris says, interrupting his thoughts. “I’ll practice my flattery for your next visit? With any luck, I’ll become better at it.”

Gareth smiles. “I’d like that.”

 

 

 

 

Gareth doesn’t, in fact, make it back to Gamlen’s place in Lowtown.

Luckily for him, he runs into Merrill who is out for a late evening walk, and she’s kind enough to bring him back to her apartment to sleep it off.

She helps him to a small chair, then goes to get some water, speaking fast all the while.

“This city is amazing! Do you know I saw someone get mugged? Right outside! It was fascinating! Everything happens here all at once! How does anyone keep it all straight?”

Gareth blinks, his drunken mind trying to process all of that at once. He gets stuck on the part where she witnessed a mugging.

“Wait… someone gets mugged in front of you and you think that’s _exciting_?”

Merrill nods, grinning. “It must be an alienage greeting. Hasn’t happened to me yet, though. They must not like me very much.” She hands him a battered metal cup full of water. “It’s so busy here. So many things just get… lost.”

He looks up at her and has to squint his eyes to focus, “Are you feeling lost in Kirkwall, Merrill?”

“Oh! I… just a little. But that’s alright. I’ll adjust.” She pats his shoulder. “Really, I’m fine, Hawke. But I’m glad you’re here. I needed someone to talk to.”

She takes the seat across from him at her rickety table, crossing her arms on its surface and staring out the tiny, dirty window.

Gareth reaches out, places one hand on top of hers. “Do you miss your clan?”

“I miss Hahren Paivel’s stories,” Merrill says with a sigh. “The creaking of the aravels in the breeze. Kirkwall is so busy and confusing. And the elves here are very different from the members of my clan. But… in time, I’ll get used to Kirkwall.”

“In time, you get used to its rhythms. It becomes part of your life and you… adjust.” Gareth blinks, squeezes her hand and tries his best to smile at her reassuringly. “You have all of us, Merrill. We’re here for you – whenever and whatever you need.”

She smiles at him. “Thank you, Hawke. I appreciate it. Truly, I do.”

“And the templars haven’t bothered you?”

Merrill shakes her head. “I don’t think that they even notice me. To them, I’m nothing more than another elf in the alienage. So long as I don’t work magic in public, I’ll be fine. It’s you I’m more worried about. How have you been holding up?”

“Oh. Fine. Just fine. I… I’ll admit that it bothers me that I can’t help the other refugees, but it’s for the safety of my family. The last thing I want to do is put them in danger.”

Patting the top of his hand, Merrill gives it a squeeze herself. “Don’t do anything to put yourself in danger, Hawke. You’re too important to us all to risk the templars. Besides, they’d likely not look on you fondly.”

“No, they’d not. My father talked about it with me. Bethany asked him, once, when we were young what was so wrong with the Circle. He said that… well, likely they would make me Tranquil. I would never even get the chance to take the Harrowing.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t need to apologize, Merrill. I know the risks of what will happen if the templars discover me. But I’m more worried about my Mother. If something happens–”

She tightens her grip on his hand and leans forward towards him. “Nothing will happen to you, Hawke. I promise.”

 

 

 

 

Surprisingly, Carver comes to Merrill’s apartment early the next morning. Gareth slept on the floor, with a blanket and spare pillow that Merrill had draped over him sometime the night before. He’s terrible sore and his head is throbbing.

“Mother was worried when you didn’t come home last night.”

Gareth shields his eyes from the bright light of the sun as he rolls over onto his back. He groans. “I went drinking with Fenris. We got… a little carried away.”

He can hear Carver’s eyeroll in his voice, “Of course you were. Are you going to be getting up any time soon?”

“I have water!” Merrill chirps. “And something for breakfast.”

“I think if I eat anything, I’m just going to bring it back up.” Gareth pushes himself up into a sitting position, massaging his temples. A little flush of magic through his system helps with the headache and eases the nausea, but that’s about as far as Gareth is willing to go with it. “Water, though, would be great, thank you, Merrill.”

There’s a large, beaten carafe on the table, along with a mismatched assortment of glasses. Merrill sets out a large platter with an assortment of cheese, bread, and sliced dried meat on it. The sight of it makes Gareth’s stomach rumble, but he knows better than to give him.

“Looks good, Merrill,” Carver says, smiling at her.

Ah yes, he’d forgotten about Carver’s not-so-little crush on Merrill. Not even the discovery that she uses blood magic has dimmed that flame that Carver’s been carrying for her. It’s actually rather adorable and though Gareth might tease his brother for it, he knows that Carver could definitely do worse. At least Merrill is sweet and honest, all good things. And their Mother likes her.

Yes, he thinks of his own situation, Carver could do worse.

Breakfast is a mostly quiet affair. Merrill and Carver fill the silence with a pleasant, soft buzz of mostly mundane chatter. Gareth guesses that his presence puts a bit of a damper on Carver’s flirtations.

“Should we go check in with Varric?” Gareth asks. “See if he knows of any work that pays well?”

Carver shrugs, “Sure, why not. He still owes me a drink.”

“I thought – oh, nevermind.”

Merrill cleans everything up with some help from Gareth. Once everything’s packed up and neatly put away, they leave Merrill’s apartment, only pausing so that she can lock the door before they continue on.

He tenses up when he spots the templar in the centre of the alienage, near the tree.

Exchanging a glance with Merrill, they edge closer carefully. The risk is worth learning what’s going on; it’s entirely possible that someone’s about to turn one of them in.

The templar is speaking with an elven woman who, to Gareth’s surprise, has markings on her face like Merrill’s Dalish clan.

“I am sorry for your loss, mistress,” he says. “But I can offer your son mercy only if he turns himself in.”

Her voice quavers, and it’s obvious that she’s on the verge of tears, “I’m trying to find him, but–”

“The templars cannot tolerate apostates.”

“This will be Mother if we’re not careful,” Carver mutters.

Whatever is said next, Gareth can’t hear, but the elven woman breaks down into sobs, cradling her face in her hands. The templar walks off, leaving her there to weep.

He strides forward, gently lays a hand on the woman’s shoulder, “I’m sorry to intrude, but it sounds like your son is in trouble. Is there anything I can do?”

She whirls around to look at him, eyes wide, lips trembling like her voice. “You… you heard all of that and still you would help? An apostate? Oh, thank you!”

“I couldn’t turn away from someone in need.”

Smiling, she introduces herself, “I am Arianni. My boy, Feynriel… he’s all I have, all my family. When I learned he had magic… I could not bear sending him to the Circle. But his connection to the Fade… it plagues him with nightmares. I would rather lose him to the Circle than to himself.”

“What do you need me to do? Find him?”

Arianni nods, “Please find him. Bring him somewhere safe.”

“Do you have any idea where I might find him?” Gareth asks. He needs somewhere to start; Kirkwall is, after all, a large city.

“I don’t know where he’s gone,” Arianni replies. “But there are two places where you might start your search. Ser Thrask has been looking for him. If you speak to him in the Gallows, he’ll be able to tell you what ground he’s already covered. And Feynriel’s father, Vincento, recently returned from Antiva. He’s a merchant in the Lowtown bazaar. Feynriel might have sought him out.”

He smiles at her, reassuringly, “I will find him. I won’t leave you in fear a moment longer than necessary.”

“Thank you. Oh, thank you. It’s been a lonely time, hiding. It’s almost a relief to finally confront this openly. When you… find him and have brought him to safety, please let me know. Even if he hates me for doing this, I just want him to be safe and alive.”

“I’ll find him, Arianni. You have my word.”

Gareth watches her disappear into the crowd, while Merrill and Carver catch up with him. He hadn’t realized that he’d taken off on them so suddenly.

Carver sighs, “As always, you’re getting us into trouble, aren’t you? You can’t just march into the Gallows and speak with a templar, Gareth. That’s suicide!”

“So long as I don’t do anything to draw attention to myself, I’ll be fine,” Gareth replies. “Besides, I made a promise that I’d find her son.”

“And that boy sounds like he’s a breath away from becoming an abomination.” Carver sighs again, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. If we’re going to find him, we’re going to have to find him and fast.”

“He ought to have his own life, out from the shackles of the Circle,” Merrill comments. “Everybody should.”

“And where would we send him?” Carver says. “I don’t know too many apostates in Kirkwall who would be willing to take on an apprentice. And we can’t just turn him out into the countryside – that’s just asking for letting an abomination loose.”

“Carver’s right, Merrill, unfortunately,” Gareth says, resting a hand on her shoulder and squeezing. “We can’t take on apprentice now and I’ve never trained anyone. The Circle is his best bet for learning to master his talents.”

Her shoulders sag, “I know you’re right… but it isn’t fair.”

“I know.”

“We need to find him first,” Carver reminds them. “Otherwise this conversation is pointless. C’mon, let’s go get Varric and then we can head for the Gallows if that’s where you’re _insisting_ on going.”

 

 

 

 

Varric’s just as surprised to find out what they’ll be doing today.

“So, now we’re tracking down runaway mages?”

“Something like that.”

“Alright, count me in.”

“We’ll speak with Feynriel’s father, Vincento, first,” Gareth says. “To see if he has any information on where his son is. I doubt it, but there’s a chance that they might have spoken.”

“He abandoned him. I doubt that he’d go to him,” Merrill says.

“He’s on our way. We’ll check with him, then head for the Gallows.”

“He’ll be on the far side of the bazaar,” Varric says. “What? I have sources.”

Finding Vincento with Varric’s help is easy enough. He has a small stall between two others, selling various Antivan goods.

He beams at Gareth as he approaches, “Greetings, serah! You look like a man who’d be interested in the finest Antivan steel to grace his hand. I bring only the finest northern merchandise to the Free Marches.”

“Actually,” Gareth says. “I’m more interested in your son.”

“Son?” Vincento blinks, exaggeratedly taken aback. “I have never had that privilege, serah. My poor wife, she is back in Antiva and cannot see me often with my travels. But! Let us not ruin the day with such weighty thoughts! Perhaps I can show you my silks…?”

Gareth scowls, “You _abandoned_ your son at birth. If you have any regrets about that at all, then help me save him now.”

“There’s no man in Kirkwall who is friend to an elfblood mageling,” Vincento spits. “A _smile_ won’t buy my trust.”

He turns his back on Gareth, and stalks behind his stall, pointedly ignoring the lot of them.

“Well,” Varric says. “That went well.”

“There’s still that templar – Thrask – that Arianni mentioned,” Gareth says. “He’ll likely be more helpful.”

 

 

 

 

Luckily for Gareth, Thrask isn’t in the templar quarters. He’s lingering at the base of the stairs that lead up into the large courtyard at the foot of Kirkwall’s Circle tower – an old Tevinter prison – and the atmosphere is depressing and oppressive.

Thrask stands out with his bright, bright red hair and beard. He dismisses the messenger he’s speaking with when Gareth’s group approaches him.

“Can I help you with something, serah?” Thrask asks.

Gareth doesn’t shift uncomfortably under templar scrutiny. He’s used to it. He remembers from Lothering, trying to make himself be as normal as possible; him and Bethany staying in the background to keep from being noticed.

Instead, he meets Thrask’s eyes dead on, and says, “You’re the templar that’s searching for Feynriel, correct?”

Thrask’s eyebrows go up, “I did not realize that his name was so widely known, but I am.”

“And I didn’t know we would announce it to a templar,” Carver mutters, crossing his arms.

“You spoke with his mother, I assume? Or perhaps you know Arianni from when she was with the Dalish?” Thrask addresses the latter part of his question to Merrill.

“We don’t all know each other,” Merrill replies, crossing her arms across her chest and nudging the ground with her toes. “There are a lot of clans, you know.”

Thrask nods and sighs, “I’m surprised sometimes at the sympathies that mages evoke. I always expect people to be more wary of their powers than touched by their struggles. But… if we do not find Feynriel soon, it will not matter. Either he will be taken by the demons or by… less mystical means.”

Thrask straightens, looking a tad uncomfortable. “And I have said more than enough on the topic. This is a templar matter and we will be handling it.”

“Perhaps I could assist you, then?” Gareth offers. “Surely it’s in Feynriel’s best interests to have as many people searching for him as possible.”

“That… is true.” Thrask falls silent for a long stretch of moments, then says, “Very well. There is a templar – _former_ templar – by the name of Samson. He left the Order due to… philosophical differences. He has been known to help mages flee Kirkwall on occasion. If Feynriel sought him out for help, Samson would not tell me. He stays out of sight during the day, but I’ve seen him at night – near the entrance to Darktown.”

“Thank you,” Gareth says. “I’ll speak with him tonight.”

“Hopefully, serah, your luck with him is better than mine.”

It’s with a sigh of relief that they leave the Gallows peacefully. Tension that Gareth hadn’t been aware of bleeds out of him as they take a small ferry from the small island back into Kirkwall proper. When he steps off the ferry and onto the docks, he feels at ease once again, able to blend back into the crowds of people.

Carver’s still scowling, “That was reckless. What would you have done if we were caught?”

“I have you to vouch for me, don’t I?” Gareth asks, tilting his head back. “You wouldn’t let them take me.”

“It was unnecessary. We could have found the information some other way. Mother will worry.”

“And if it was me who was missing and in danger? Would you leave Mother to worry over me?”

“No! But… you take too many risks, Gareth! Risks that _we_ can’t afford! This is Kirkwall – not Lothering where we knew everyone. It’s not the same!”

“People are staring,” Merrill comments lightly. She smiles at them, beatific and sweet, and they’re quick to move along, averting their eyes from her. “Come now, if you two are going to fight, do it where we won’t have to intervene. I’m a terrible referee, you know.”

Carver makes a strangled noise deep in his throat. Then he storms off.

Gareth watches him go, a familiar weight settling onto his shoulders. “It’s alright, Merrill. Carver is… just worried about me. And Mother.”

“It’s a younger brother’s job,” Varric says, shrugging. “Always worrying over and keeping the older sibling out of trouble. Guess it’s more difficult with you, Hawke. Bartrand might be a stubborn ass, but we don’t have to worry about the templars. So much, anyway.”

“It will be fine, you’ll see,” Merrill reassures him, squeezing his shoulder. “He just needs a little time to cool off and then he’ll be back. Why don’t we stop by Fenris’ place and see if he’ll join us for drinks at the Hanged Man?”

“Remind me to put Broody on my tab. Maker knows, he needs it.”

 

 

 

 

Fenris does indeed join them for drinks and a spot of lunch at the Hanged Man.

“What do you plan to do when you find this mage?” Fenris asks.

“He’ll need instruction – something which neither Merrill nor I are able to give him,” Gareth replies. “Unfortunately, his only option is to go to the Circle. He’ll have the company of other mages there, along with learning how to master and control his talents. It’s… not ideal, but it’s the best we can do in these circumstances.”

Fenris grunts, “Good.”

Gareth lays a hand on Merrill’s arm, shaking his head at her. Now isn’t the time for them to launch into another argument or marginally heated debate about whether mages belong in Circles or not.

“If he were an elf,” Merrill says quietly. “I would recommend sending him to the Dalish, but since he’s human blooded…”

“And no Dalish mage ever became an abomination,” Fenris mutters.

“That’s not my point. He’d be an outcast amongst our kind,” Merrill replies, rather primly. “Even if Keeper Marethari was willing to taking him on as a Second, the clan would likely never accept him fully despite his elven blood.”

“Why is that?” Gareth asks, curious. He sets his mug back on the table, turning his attention to Merrill. And away from Fenris who is already eyeing his – he pushes it towards him, surprised at how much alcohol that Fenris can put away and remain functional.

“Oh well.” Merrill flushes, picks at her fingers for a long moment before she replies. She won’t look at him as she does. “It’s a safety reason, mainly. Usually, half-blooded children become wandering Keepers or hunters. They blend in a little easier, but there’s not one in the area to take on Feynriel so… I don’t like it, but you’re right – the best place to send him is the Circle.”

“I don’t like it that much either,” Gareth replies, quietly. “But it’s too risky for us to take on an apprentice – even between us. He’ll get what he needs from the Circle: attention and education.”

“Yes,” Merrill murmurs. “It’s for the best.”

 

 

 

 

Sneaking out into Lowtown that night is tricky. Carver still hasn’t returned, leaving them short a warrior but Gareth can fill in for him for now. They’re not expecting too much trouble.

Samson is easy enough to find. He’s an incredibly haggard looking man who is begging near the entrance to Darktown. The smell of him is nearly overpowering when they get close enough. His mouth is twisted into an incredibly bitter expression.

His tone is no better, “So, heard that my old _friend_ Thrask was telling you folks to seek me out. Don’t look like you’ll be needing my help, though.”

“Actually, I was hoping that you could help me,” Gareth replies. “I’m looking for a young boy named Feynriel. Thrask said he might have come to you for help.”

“I’ll tell you now, not much I can do for you.” Samson shrugs. “Met him. Blighter was dead broke, though, not a silver on him. Y’know how it is, I help one mageling for free, and I’ll never get paid again.”

“How generous of you,” Gareth says. “Do you have any idea of where he might have gone?”

Samson nods, “Pointed him toward a ship’s captain I know. Man by the name of Reiner. He’ll occasionally take on runaways. Took another apostate last week – girl I sent him.” He frowns, glances at his feet and scuffs them against the dusty ground. “Might have gone wrong, though… I heard rumours that he’d taken the both of them captive instead.”

Gareth’s heart drops into his stomach, “Please tell me it’s not too late to save them.”

Glancing around, Samson leans in close, whispering hoarsely. His breath stinks like the wrong end of a druffalo. “Rumour has it that Reiner’s got the pair of them locked in a quays warehouse dockside. You want to find the boy, you’d best go looking now. Otherwise, he’ll be ransomed to the templars. Or worse. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

Varric flips the man a couple silvers. “Go get yourself something to eat. And maybe a bath.”

“Mighty generous of you,” Samson says, grinning. It looks more like a leer, the way that it pulls at his face. But he vanishes quickly into the depths of the city. Likely, Gareth thinks, not to buy food.

Something about Samson set his senses tingling. His magic reaching out, towards something. Lyrium, Gareth thinks, because he’s felt that way around templars before. He pushes it down, ignores it, and turns away. They’ll need to reach the docks to find Feynriel.

“Come on, we’ll need to hurry if we’re to get this over with before dawn.”

There is no shortcut through Kirkwall. The city is built like a disorienting maze, and it takes well over an hour for the four of them to reach the Docks. Locating the warehouse takes a little longer, requiring Varric to pick the lock on the harbour master’s desk to find out just which one that Reiner has rented. Gareth and Fenris keep watch, but the docks are practically deserted at this hour. But it always pays to be careful.

Once they have their location, they launch themselves back into action.

The warehouse, once they enter, is rather abandoned. It does, however, stink of fish, which Fenris does not at all appreciate.

“Urgh, let’s get this over with quickly,” Fenris comments, nose wrinkling. “And be done with this place.”

“It’s not so bad, Fenris,” Merrill comments. She’s bouncing on the balls of her feet. “You get used to it after a while. And it doesn’t smell as terrible as the ship we took from Ferelden did.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Oh. Right.”

They’re creeping their way along the second level, when they hear voices.

“Get a hold of her!”

“Please! Help me! Someone! Anyone!” It’s followed by the high-pitched scream of a young girl.

Gareth doesn’t even bother with the handle. He kicks the door down.

The guards have a young girl on the ground, her robe grimy but she’s clearly a mage. One of the men wields a long dagger. There’s a third man, a ways behind them, overseeing the entire affair with a disinterested expression on his face.

The other says, “Get the hands! I heard they can’t do no spells without hands!”

Until now, Gareth has never seen an abomination before.

He knows now.

The girl’s skin begins to bubble, as though her very blood is boiling. Her body twitches, joints cracking. Skin explodes outwards, splattering the men and the room with blood.

What’s left behind is a grotesque parody of a human body. The flesh is a mottled grey and red, stained with blood. With long, clawed fingers and a gaping, disjointed mouth and melted face. It howls, voice echoing, as it shouts.

“ **You know nothing of magic!** ”

It tears the throat out of one of the men, while the other flees. Directly into Gareth’s party.

Fenris acts first, arm lighting up blue, and tears the heart clear out of his chest.

The last man, whom Gareth assumes is Reiner, has drawn his blade and is trying uselessly to fend off the abomination before him. With a twist of its hand, he goes up in a plume of fire and smoke.

The abomination turns its attention on them. It howls, an earsplitting noise that makes all the hair on the back of Gareth’s neck stand on end.

Dimly, he knows, as he unholsters his stave and prepares to fight, that this fate could be his.

It will not be his. Never.

 

 

 

 

The abomination leaves behind a smoldering corpse. In death, it looks even less human than it did when it was still moving. All four of them give it a wide berth as Varric searches what remains of Reiner’s body. He locates a key, which opens a chest, which gives them their next clue as to Feynriel’s whereabouts.

Gareth, distracted, spots the letter folded into the remnants of the girl’s robes. Turning the folded paper over, he can make out a name, despite the singed and stained edges. _Thrask_.

_Oh_. He tucks the letter into his coat. He’ll return it to the templar at a later time, once they’ve located Feynriel and have seen him to safety.

“Looks like Reiner’s been dabbling in slavery,” Varric comments. “He sold the boy to someone in the Undercity, by the name of Danzig.”

Gareth pushes himself back to his feet, dusting his hands off, “Well, then I think that we should be paying this Danzig a little visit.” He looks to Fenris, “You ready to pay some slavers their due?”

Fenris grins, his markings pulse blue for a moment. “Always.”


	6. feel it burning through my veins

Locating Danzig in the Undercity is, surprisingly, rather easy. All it took is a couple of pointed questions, Bianca’s business end, and Varric’s uncanny aim and they knew precisely where to find their man. Even if they didn’t, Danzig would be easy to spot, as most people in Darktown keep to themselves.

So a man in robes with a large group of armed men attracts attention.

Gareth descends the stairs first, with Fenris and Merrill flanking him – Varric bringing up the rear.

The man, Danzig, grins when he sees them, “Why, look here boys! Volunteers! Clap ‘em in irons and let’s see what the Tevinters will pay for them!”

“Make him talk,” Gareth says, flatly, cocking his head towards Fenris.

“I can do that,” Fenris grins. He steps towards Danzig, arm blazing blue, and plunges his hand straight into the man’s chest. With a twist of his wrist, he steps back.

Danzig chokes, collapsing to his knees, and clutches his chest.

“Andraste’s great flaming ass! How did you do that?!” Danzig stumbles to his feet, hand fisted in his robes above his heart. His breathing is ragged, hitching, and he coughs wetly. “Never-nevermind! I-I’ve stashed the boy in a cave! It’s a smuggler’s hide-out on the Wounded Coast! A man named Varian Ilithis will be by later to finish the deal!”

His legs must be shaking badly, because he crumples to the ground. One of his men comes forward, trying to help his boss back to his feet.

“N-now can I go?”

Gareth shakes his head, twirling his stave free of its wrappings.

“I let you live and I condemn countless innocents to slavery.”

It’s a completely anti-climactic fight.

Danzig crumples to the ground, one of Gareth’s knives lodged in his throat. Not that he needed that help, but a swift death is better than the slow one whatever Fenris had done promised him.

Two men get caught in Merrill’s spells. One is dragged flat to the ground, crushed in a cocoon of roots she summoned up. Another ends his life with his head splattered against a wall by one of her near patented stone fists. With another twirl of her staff and twist of her hand, Merrill sends out a wave of lighting.

Gareth dodges one man’s blade, brings his stave up to block it, and then blasts him back towards Fenris’ blade with a spirit bolt.

Two more fall to the ground, clutching their throats from which bolts have blossomed.

The remaining three are in pieces, courtesy of Fenris’ greatsword.

“Well, that didn’t take long at all,” Varric remarks.

Fenris grins, wiping a smattering of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. “That’s one less slaver.”

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Merrill flicks blood from the blade of her spear. “We know where they’ve taken Feynriel and now we can go rescue him. We, ah, won’t have to escort him to the Gallows, will we? I’d rather not venture there again.”

“You were in the Gallows? Isn’t that dangerous?” Fenris asks, turning to Gareth.

He flushes, “So long as I’m careful, it’s not an issue. No one suspects that I’m an apostate and it’s not really something one announces, is it?”

“I… suppose. Still, you should avoid the place if you’re able.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

“You should show you care more often, Broody. Unless that’s part of your dark and mysterious persona, in which case – best keep it hidden.”

Fenris’ eyes twitch wider and he glances away from Gareth, the moment ruined. Clearing his throat, he cleans his greatsword quickly, and returns it to its harness.

It leaves Gareth feeling strangely bereft, a bit like he’s been jerked back from the edge of a cliff. He casts a sharp glare at Varric, who refuses to look at him and only shrugs, before he sighs. There’s nothing to be done about it now; he’s got no idea how to recapture the moment and doubts that Fenris would appreciate it if he tried.

“So, Varric, any idea where this smuggler’s hide-out of his might be located?”

“I’ll check with my contacts in the Coterie,” Varric replies, returning the last of his bolts to his quiver. “It’ll only take me an hour or two. How about I meet the lot of you at the city gate? And I’ll see if I can rustle up where Junior’s sulked off to.”

“Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

 

 

 

Varric’s got the information they need in under an hour.

“It’s a cave not far from the city. According to one of my contacts, it used to be connected to the Undercity, but the tunnel collapsed. Now the only entrance is the one off the coast. It’s going to be a hard hike there, but we can make it there and back in one day – provided the kid doesn’t slow us down too much.”

“You don’t think he’ll be hurt, do you?” Merrill asks.

“If he is, I can help him,” Gareth replies. “Don’t worry, Merrill. We’ll rescue him and bring him back to Kirkwall.”

“To the Circle.”

“Merrill…”

She shakes her head, “I know. It’s… for the best. But still, everyone should be allowed to choose their own way.”

“I know. But he needs training – something that we can’t provide him with.”

She nods. “I know. I just… don’t really like it.”

“Neither do I. But there’s nothing else that we can do. Better alive than dead. Or an abomination.”

He’s certain that he will dream of the abomination that poor girl became. It will haunt him for as long as he lives; the knowing that he could just as easily become one himself. Until Kirkwall, everything about abominations and maleficar had been theoretical, warnings that his father had passed along to him. But now… now they’re real.

All of those stories that his father told him and Bethany about the dangers of magic make sense now. For so long, they’d been little but that: warnings. Gareth had never feared his magic before or appreciated, really, how dangerous it could be.

He does now.

Letting out a heavy breath, Gareth stirs himself from his heavy thoughts. Feynriel is still in danger and it’s up to them to save him. They know where he is, all that they need to do is reach him before the slavers do. And if they don’t, well, the world would be better off with a few less of them.

Varric wasn’t joking about it being a hard hike out to the smuggler’s hideout.

To make it there in the shortest amount of time as possible, they take a number of shortcuts and game trails. In some places, the path is so narrow that they have to turn sideways and walk single file to avoid falling off the sheer drop-off of the cliff’s face.

When they finally reach the cave’s entrance, they’ve all worked up a fine sheen of sweat.

“This is the place?” Gareth asks, cocking his head towards the cave.

“If my sources are correct, yeah. This is the place.”

Crouched down, Fenris eyes the dirt with a critical eye. “A large group of people came through here recently. Likely the slavers here for the boy. We should hurry if we mean to reach him first.”

“Then we’ll need to be careful. Who knows what they might have left in store for us,” Gareth says. “I’ll take point with Fenris – Merrill, you’re back-up and support.”

“Are you certain? I can handle it alone.” Fenris shifts on his feet, looking at Gareth closely.

“My father trained me how to fight. I’m not afraid of combat,” Gareth says. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that I’m more than capable of handling myself.”

There’s that little ghost of a smile that makes Gareth’s heart flutter against his ribs. “That you can.”

Entering the cave with caution, there’s actually very little lying in wait for them.

Gareth had been expecting that there would be traps, trick-doors, and false rooms. Even Athenril had taken more care to protect her points of entry when he worked with her. Instead, they proceed with little resistance; there’s only a small, token squad of guards left behind to guard the rear.

Wrenching his staff from one slaver’s chest, Gareth wipes his brow. The humidity sticks to him, making the sweat from combat weigh heavier. He’s looking forward to the bath that he’ll have once all of this is over.

Their footsteps echo in the cave as they make their way through, no matter their attempts to muffle them. There goes the element of surprise, Gareth thinks.

When the cave opens up into a larger cavernous area, they’re confronted with the main body of the slavers.

Up on a ledge, with a view of his men below him, stands their leader. He must be Varian, the man that Danzig had mentioned.

He has a knife held to a young boy’s throat. Feynriel.

“Take one more step and the boy dies!”

Next to Gareth, Fenris’ hand twitches towards the hilt of his blade.

Gareth shakes his head. Not yet.

Turning back to Varian, Gareth takes a deep breath and says, making sure his voice carries, “Tell this dirtbag who we are.”

Varric grins easily, cracking his knuckles, “My pleasure. If I were you, I wouldn’t be threatening the viscount’s son.”

“What?” Varian’s hand holding the dagger trembles, but he keeps it where it is.

“Oh, I suppose you got a tip from a slaver that he was selling mage-flesh cheap? You never thought to _ask_ where he got it?” Varric’s eye glint in the torchlight, he has everyone’s attention now. “You never wondered if you were buying the viscount’s well-known love child with his elven mistress – the boy he swore to protect even if it meant razing the entire Free Marches?”

For a moment, Gareth doesn’t know if it’s worked. He’s seen Varric spin a tale before, in the tavern, and how riveted everyone is by it, that they can’t look away – and no one ever questions whether Varric is making something up or if it’s real. They always buy it. He’s hoping for the same result now.

Varian lowers his blade, “I seek no war with the Free Marches. Take the boy to his father.”

Feynriel drops to the ground and quickly scrambles away; hopefully to safety, or at least out of easy reach. He’s out of sight, for now.

Twirling his stave, Gareth summons the energy to his hand for a spirit bolt, “We will… once _you’re_ dead.”

Beside him, Fenris’ markings blaze into brilliantly bright blue light. “Time to die, little man!”

Gareth nails Varian right in the face with his spirit bolt, then whirls around to block the blade of another of the slaver’s.

On the edge of his perception, Merrill is glowing bright green, surrounded by a swirling mass of roots she’s summoned that intercept blades and entangle foes. The blade of her spear glints in the torchlight, trailing ribbons of blood behind it.

He focuses on the battle about him, coming together with Fenris and then apart again. With an exhale, Gareth pulls up the reserves of magic he keeps to keep them fighting. He can faintly sense the closing of small wounds and nicks along each of them, the burn of exertion fading, exhaustion being beaten back.

Power floods through him, the way that it always does, and now that he’s paying closer attention to it, he can sense the phantom hands laying over his, the presence that’s there but not. Now that he knows, Gareth realizes how thin the Veil is about him – as though he’s a walking, minor weak point in it, of a sort at least. It’s a difficult thing to describe and Gareth doesn’t believe he ever will be able to; not even if pressed.

Fenris is a glowing blue blur on the edges of his vision. He swings his greatsword with ease, cleaving enemies in two. He blocks an incoming blow, before plunging his hand into the man’s chest, tearing it out with a blast of blood and organ.

Without Carver, it falls to Gareth to act as their secondary warrior. He picks up the slack, blocking a sword, then blasting the man back with a well-placed spirit bolt. It gives him enough space to bring his stave around, catching the man in the side of his throat. Gareth draws it back, pushes it straight through his armour, piercing the heart.

Fast and lethal. He’d rather no one suffer too long.

When the fight ends, Gareth wrenches his stave out from Varian’s chest, leaving the slaver lying dead on the ground.

Merrill is already dealing with the corpses, setting each one alight with a carefully controlled burst of flame.

“It’s safe!” Gareth calls out. “You can come out now, Feynriel.”

Hesitantly, the boy peeks out from the ledge that he’s hide himself on. “You would have let him kill me! He had a sword at my throat and you – I mean… thank you, but what if you were wrong?”

Gareth helps Feynriel down from the ledge, letting his magic wash over him to check for any wounds. Mercifully, he’s unhurt.

“You were too valuable for him to kill,” Gareth replies.

“And that’s my choice? Prisoner or slave?” Feynriel spits out. His eyes narrow. “Who are you? Are you working for the templars?”

“Your mother sent me.”

Feynriel snorts, “Hardly a difference. I can’t believe her! My whole life it was ‘I’ll love you and protect you’. Then I have some bad dreams and it’s off to the templars!”

“You need to learn to master your talents,” Gareth counters. “If nothing else, the Circle can help you with that.”

“Well, I’m not going.” Feynriel sniffs, crossing his arms. “I was trying to reach the Dalish. _They_ won’t be afraid of my magic.”

“You’d be alone amongst the Dalish,” Gareth warns him.

“Even more so than I am in Kirkwall,” Merrill adds. “While I’m certain that my people would help you, you wouldn’t find the acceptance you’re seeking.”

“Compared to being a prisoner or made Tranquil? I’ll risk being lonely,” Feynriel retorts, rolling his eyes. After a moment, though, he sighs, and continues, “Look, I know it’s different in other places, but here? No one helps Circle mages. Anything the templars don’t like, you get the brand. But the Dalish… they’ve had magic forever. They could teach me. I won’t be a danger, I promise.”

“Keeper Marethari already has a First and Second,” Merrill says. “She can’t afford to take on another apprentice – not now.”

“Because no Dalish mage ever went astray,” Fenris mutters, wiping his blade clean of blood.

“Is your mother right?” Gareth asks. “Are you plagued by demons already?”

“I… I can’t say for sure. I have… dreams. There are voices in them. They ask me to come, to give shape to the Void around them. But the Dalish Keeper is wise. If anyone can help, she can.”

“It’s as though everything goes in one of his ears and out the other,” Merrill murmurs. “Feynriel, I’m sorry, but you won’t find the acceptance you’re looking for among the Dalish. Please, listen to Hawke. He only wants what’s best for you. As do we all.”

Feynriel scowls, “Fine! Take your blood money! Let my mother know she’s won! But she’ll be the only one I don’t miss when they lock me away.”

“Your mother didn’t pay me to come after you. She only wanted to be assured of your safety.”

“Hmph.”

“Leave the mageling be, Hawke,” Fenris says. “It’s clear that he’s made his decision to sulk.”

“And I’m certain you’d recognize that when you see it, wouldn’t you, Broody?”

“I don’t brood.”

“That’s your smile? Could’ve fooled me.”

 

 

 

Gareth’s grateful when they return to Kirkwall and bring Feynriel to the Circle of Magi. It had been a long hike back to the city, made longer by Feynriel’s refusal to accept _any_ of their help.

Still bickering, though it’s softened quite a bit, Fenris and Varric stop off at the Hanged Man for drinks, dinner, and a game of cards. Gareth’s promised to join them, once he’s seen Merrill safely home and informed Arianni that her son has been safely escorted to the Circle.

“We did the right thing, didn’t we?” Merrill asks, softly.

Gareth nods, “We did. And if he ever needs us, we’ll be there to help him. For now, he’s angry. Eventually, he will accept what has happened and he’ll know that we’re here and on his side.”

“He’ll come to us, then.”

“Definitely.”

Arianni is almost exactly where they found her the day before. She’s in the middle of the alienage, perched on one of the protruding roots of the large tree at its centre – the vhenadahl, Gareth reminds himself; Merrill having told him the elven word for it. It’s a beautiful, large tree, decorated with colourful paints and strings of paper charms.

It’s a beautiful spot of green and colour within the pale, drab walls of the city.

When Arianni spots them, she hops down from her perch and hurries over to them. Her eyes are wide, stretching the corners of her eyes and thinning the lines of her tattoo. “You have word of my son?”

“He has gone to master his talents at the Circle,” Gareth replies, nodding. He feels rather like he’s bringing news of a death, rather than her son is alive and well. “He was… not pleased about the result.”

Arianni’s shoulders droop, but she shrugs, and smiles at him sadly. “He may never forgive me for sending him there, but I’d rather him alive and furious than dead and buried. Thank you, for helping in this. I have little in the way to repay you, but–”

“There’s no need. I’m simply glad to be of help,” Gareth replies. He smiles at her to soften his refusal. “And if you ever find yourself in need of help again, I’d gladly render it.”

“You are a rare human indeed, serah,” Arianni beams. “I will remember you. And… again, you have my thanks.”

 

 

 

 

The next morning, before he’s due to meet Varric for a little breakfast meeting, Gareth makes his way out to the Gallows. Alone.

The letter to the templar Thrask weighs heavily on him. He’d read it the night before, it was little more than a folded piece of paper, Thrask’s name scrawled across the outside. The remembrance of the abomination that Olivia became is burned into his memory; he’ll carry it with him always. Let her father remember her as she was.

Gareth only wishes that he could bring Thrask better news than he does.

Thrask is easy enough to spot with his bright red hair. He greets Gareth when he approaches.

“Ah, you again,” Thrask smiles. “Thank you for bringing Feynriel to the Circle. He is resentful still, but it is the only place where he can master his demons.”

Removing the letter from the inside of his coat, Gareth holds it out to Thrask, “I found this. It was addressed to you. It’s… from you daughter.”

Thrask blinks, “My daughter? Then… you know what she is. How she…” He swallows. “Died.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. No parent should outlive their child.” _And no older brother should burn his little sister_.

“I should have convinced her to come to the Circle – forced her, perhaps,” Thrask murmurs, fingers worrying the edges of the letter. “I tracked her to the warehouse, but her pleas convinced me otherwise. It was my own weakness that destroyed her.”

“You are not to blame for her death,” Gareth replies, softly. “And neither was she.”

Thrask nods. For a long time, he says nothing, just stares at his name on the letter.

“Olivia is why I urged Arianni to be strong and not give in when Feynriel wished to hide. If only… if only I had been strong enough for her.” He blinks back tears, “Thank you for bringing this. Truly.”

“It’s the least I could do. You were her father, after all, and the letter is yours.” Gareth glances about, checking to make sure that they won’t be overheard. He lowers his voice, “You need not fear the templars finding out.”

“Again, thank you. She is at peace now. I would not wish to see her name smeared while her ashes are still warm.” Thrask straightens, taking a deep breath and tucking the letter out of sight into a pouch at his belt, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should return to my duties.”

“Of course. I have business of my own to attend to. Another time, then.”

Although he leaves the Gallows feeling a little lighter than when he entered, Gareth is keenly aware of the eyes of the statues on him. It feels like they’re boring into him, reminding him that his freedom may only be temporary; one day, he may enter the Gallows and never leave again.

He tries not to think about that.

But the thought of it haunts him until he’s safely lost himself within the crowds of Lowtown. Here, he’s little more than yet another Fereldan refugee – albeit, one who has begun to make something of himself.

“There you are, Hawke!” Varric greets him when he enters his rooms at the Hanged Man. “Thought you might have decided to stand me up.”

Gareth smiles back, “I’d let you know if I wasn’t coming. I had an errand to run first.”

“Breakfast’s getting cold, you’d better dig in. Then we can talk business.”

As always, the Hanged Man’s stew is filling but full of things that Gareth can’t quite identify. He thinks that might be a carrot, but it could also be squash. Really, it’s better not to ask; it’s the Hanged Man’s speciality, after all: mystery stew.

He finishes quickly, surprised at how hungry he actually is. He’d likely even take seconds, but Gareth knows better than to test his luck so early in the day.

Varric kicks back in his chair, an array of papers in front of him, “So, here’s the thing: we need to find a way into the Deep Roads. Bartrand can lead us to the right place once we’re down there, but we need a good entrance.”

“I fought darkspawn when we fled Ferelden,” Gareth says, throat constricting at the memory. Darkspawn. _Bethany_. “But I’ve never actually been to the Deep Roads.”

“Fortunately for us, I’ve received some new information.” Varric leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “There’s a Grey Warden in the city. If anyone knows how to get down there, it would be him.”

“Him?”

“Yeah, what I heard is that he came over with some Fereldan refugees from Amaranthine. A Lowtown woman named Lirene – she owns a shop in the bazaar, ever been? – has been helping the Fereldans. We talk to her, maybe we learn where he is.”

“And this Warden is our only option? I’d rather not cause trouble with a Warden, if it’s all the same to you.” The fight in Dane’s is not a pleasant memory.

“Wardens forge into the Deep Roads all the time,” Varric replies. “Even if he doesn’t know of an entrance near by, he’ll be able to point us in the right direction at least. And besides, we don’t have any other options. The entrance that Bartrand had lined up originally proved to be a bust.”

Gareth raises an eyebrow, “And if he doesn’t want to help?”

“Then we leave. I’d rather not fight a Warden if we can avoid it. It’ll just be a friendly chat, promise.” Varric sighs, “I’ve been keeping after my sources, but if we can’t find anything soon, then we’re going to have a fancy expedition with nowhere to go.”

“Hopefully, then, he can help us,” Gareth says. “If not… I don’t know where we’d start looking.”

“Poke around and see if the Coterie or the Carta’s found anything useful. The Carta would be our best bet, but they’re pretty tight-lipped when it comes to their smuggling routes. I’m on friendly terms with one of their smugglers – I’ll see if she’s got anything lined up that she can share. But we shouldn’t count on that.”

“So, this Warden is essentially our best and only chance at locating an entrance,” Gareth sums up. “We better hope he’s amenable to helping us.”

“Basically, yeah. We’re pretty much up a river without a paddle.”

Rubbing his hand over his face, Gareth sighs, “Well, at least you’re telling me this early in the day. We can deal with it, then. Which reminds me… did you find out where Carver went? He didn’t come home last night.”

“If I’m not mistaken, he’s apparently attempting to woo a lovely lady at the Rose by the name of Faith,” Varric replies, smirking. “My contacts put him there all of last night.”

Gareth buries his head in his hands and groans. Of course his brother found the brothel. Just his luck.

“Don’t tell our mother. Please.”

“I’d never dream of it,” Varric replies. He places a consoling hand on Gareth’s shoulder. “Consider it our little secret.”

“Thank you, Varric. I owe you one.”

“I think we’re pretty even,” Varric waves him off. “Really, don’t worry about it, Hawke. I’ve got some of people keeping tabs on him – just to keep him out of trouble, if it comes to it.”

Standing, Gareth cracks his knuckles. “Well, I suppose we had better see about this Grey Warden then, shouldn’t we?”

“Sounds good to me.”

Coming down from upstairs, Gareth and Varric are just in time to catch the tail end of an argument going on at the bar.

“You owe us, Isabela,” a man spits.

The woman he addresses – Isabela, he called her – seems unbothered by the venom in his voice and continues drinking, only pausing to say, “Well, Lucky, I’ll tell you what: Since the information you gave me was worth nothing… that’s what I’ll pay you.”

Lucky grabs her arm and Gareth takes two steps forward, ready to intervene.

“Me and my boys will get our money’s worth, bitch!”

“Oh, you poor, sweet thing,” Isabela coos, leaning into his space. Then she jerks him down by the grip on her arm, slamming his head once, twice against the bar.

She’s a blur of motion, punching another twice in the face and kneeing him in the crotch before the third has a chance to grab her. But that doesn’t stop her, she slams her head back into his nose, causing him to drop her, and ducks out of the way of the incoming bottle, which smashes into the man’s head.

Just as Lucky goes for his sword, Isabela already has drawn one of her own daggers and has it levelled at Lucky’s throat. Her other hand hovers over the hilt of the other.

“Tell me, Lucky… is this worth dying for?”

Lucky hesitates, then drops his hand from his blade, slowly sulking off with his wounded friends to lick their respective wounds.

Isabela chuckles as they limp off, “I didn’t think so.”

And with that, she returns to her drink.

Gareth’s left in that awkward position of being most of the way there, hand still poised to draw his stave. He drops it quickly, but not before Isabela notices him.

“My, and here I thought the only men in this place were besotted fools who couldn’t hoist the mainsail,” she comments.

Gareth blinks, unsure how to respond. So instead, he asks, “You mean like those men you just sent scrambling from the tavern?”

“Exactly like them. Worthless twits.” Isabela knocks back another slug of ale. She smiles as she sets it down, turns to face Gareth and gives a little curtsy. “I’m Isabela. Previously ‘Captain’ Isabela. Sadly, without my ship it rings a bit hollow.”

She casts a careful, scrutinizing eye over Gareth, then continues, “You’re Fereldan, aren’t you? You have that look about you. I was in Denerim not too long ago. You know… you might be _just_ what I’m looking for to solve a little problem I have.”

“I’m always ready to help,” Gareth says. He’s feeling a little bit off balance; he’d thought he’d be stepping in to help break up a bar fight, not getting recruited into what feels very much like someone’s harebrained scheme. But it would be rude of him not to help her, if she needs it.

Varric sighs, “Well, there goes our plans…”

“Someone from my past has been pestering me,” Isabela explains. “I’ve arranged a duel – if I win, he leaves me alone. But I don’t trust him to play fair. I need someone to watch my back.”

“I think I can manage that.”

Isabela smirks, tone suggestive, “I’ll bet.”

“When is the duel?”

“I’ve arranged to meet Hayder in Hightown after dark today,” Isabela replies. “I’ll meet you in the square below the Keep, say… just after tenth bell?”

“We’ll be there,” Gareth pledges.

“I’ll be seeing you.” She saunters up the stairs and out of sight.

“You know, I never thought that I’d meet someone selfless enough to _actually_ help everyone they meet who so much as asks, but here I am,” Varric comments. “I swear, Hawke, you’re like something out of one of those tales they tell children.”

“I don’t know if that’s supposed to be a compliment or an insult.”

“Neither. Just an observation. Now come on, I had someone tell Junior to meet us at Lirene’s.”

Carver is, indeed, waiting for them outside of Lirene’s shop. He leans against the wall, sword beside him, scowling at the passer’s by. His face only marginally lightens up when he spots them and he raises his hand in greeting.

“Took you long enough, I’ve been waiting.”

“We met a lovely lady at the tavern,” Varric says. “Who your brother kindly agreed to help out of a sticky situation. So, that’s how we’ll spending our night – once we know where to find this Warden.”

“Warden?” Carver asks. “You didn’t say anything about the Wardens, Varric.”

“We just want to ask him some questions,” Gareth soothes. “None of us want trouble with the Wardens. Let’s pray that he’ll be amenable to helping our expedition.”

“Hopefully,” Carver mutters. He pushes off the wall, following Varric and Gareth into the shop.

It’s a bit of a tight squeeze. There’s already a sizeable group of people crammed into the small building, each of them talking or whispering to each other, or calling out to a woman behind the counter.

“Will everyone please just step back!” The woman, Lirene likely, calls out.

Gareth manages to squeeze his way to the front, Varric trailing behind him and Carver shouldering his way through the crowd. Now that he’s close enough, he realizes that there’s actually two women behind the counter: an older, brunette woman and a young lady with very long blonde hair that’s pulled back into a loose braid.

“My mother’s in labour!” a woman cries out. “The baby’s come early! Can anyone help her?”

“I’ll send word to the healer,” Lirene replies. “But–”

“My son’s hurt bad! Cart overturned on him at the blasted Bone Pit!”

Lirene sighs, “Everyone in your turn. I promise we have donations coming in. There will be food and medicine for all of you.” Glancing at Gareth, she smiles and turns her attention to him, “If you’re seeking aid, leave your name with my girl. We serve everyone here – no one came from Ferelden without trouble.” She casts a careful eye over his clothes, “But I can’t give priority to anyone who’s already found work and lodging.”

“Actually, I was hoping that you could help me with something else,” Gareth says. “I hear that you know where I can find a Fereldan Grey Warden.”

Her gaze sharpens, becoming cool and piercing, “Only Fereldan Grey Warden I’ve heard of is the hero herself – Queen Miriella. We’re out of the Blight’s path now. Why would _you_ need a Warden?”

“The healer was one of them once, wasn’t he? A Warden?” There’s a dreamy look on the woman’s face, her hands clasped together in front of her chest.

“Well, he’s not now,” Lirene says, scowling. “And busy enough without answering fool questions about it.”

“Who are you protecting?” Carver asks, leaning over his brother’s shoulder. He’s doing a good job at being intimidating and Gareth wishes that he wasn’t.

“You see what our people face in Kirkwall. They have no jobs, no homes. Most can barely buy bread. This healer, he serves them without thought for coin. He’s closed their wounds, delivered their children. He’s a good man. I won’t lose him to the blighted templars.”

Gareth’s stomach drops out, his mouth goes dry. “You mean he’s a mage?”

He could have been doing something. He could have been _helping_.

“Would I stick my neck out for some _purveyor_ of hensbane and leeches?”

“Oh, perish the thought. _Another_ delicate mage flower.” The roll of his eyes is audible in his tone.

Lirene ignores Carver’s comment, and continues, “He doesn’t want to be locked in the Gallows just for using the gifts the Maker gave him.”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Gareth smiles, “Your healer is in no danger from me. I promise.”

“Right. Perfectly safe,” Carver says. “If he cooperates.”

He shoves his elbow into Carver’s side. Now is not the time.

“I suppose it isn’t my secret to keep,” Lirene says at last. “Anders has certainly been free enough with his services.” She leans forward, across the counter, and whispers, “Refugees in Darktown know: to find the healer, look for the lit lantern. If you have need enough, Anders will be within.”

“Thank you,” Gareth says, before he’s crowded away from the counter by the swell of people in need of aid. He lets the crowd close around him, squeezing his way out and back towards the front entrance, where he reunites with Carver and Varric. “Well, we have our Warden, then.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard to find him. I’ll ask around a couple of my contacts, see if they know where to find the lanterns she mentioned. We should have our location by tonight. You alright, Hawke?”

“It’s – no, I couldn’t have, but… I could have helped.” Gareth sighs, “Carver, don’t. I know I couldn’t have without putting you and mother – even Gamlen – in harm’s way. It was… just a momentary thought.”

“Good, because–”

“Hey!”

Gareth looks up, confused.

They’re confronted with a number of armed refugees, whose clothing is badly fraying and heavily patched. Each of them have a sword sheathed at their waist.

“We heard you in there,” the leader says, jabbing a finger at Gareth. “Asking about the healer. We know what happens to mages in this town. And it ain’t gonna happen to him.”

Carver, scowling, elbows past Gareth, standing a little in front of him, “You want him safe? Don’t pick fights with other Fereldans while the templars are after us all!’

He takes a step back, “You – I… Sorry, your clothes… I’d figured you for a Kirkwaller. But your accent… I’m sorry.” He bows, jerkily, “Maker bless the rule of our King Alistair and his Queen Miriella.”

Gareth watches them go, “That was…”

“Everyone’s nervous. We don’t need to fight between ourselves – not when the templars are looking for any excuse to throw us all from the city’s walls. You’d think everyone would know that.”

“Some people just like a fight for the sake of it,” Varric remarks, with a shrug. “But we’ve got our Warden. We’ll pay him a visit after we finish helping out Hawke’s new ladyfriend.”

“She’s just a friend, Varric.”

“And a lady.”

 

 

 

 

Meeting up with Isabela in Hightown is not as uneventful as it should be.

It’s not just Lowtown that’s plagued with gangs. They picked up Merrill, who was excited for the duel in the evening because, as she put it, “ _It’s all so romantic! Like something out of one of Varric’s stories!_ ” And there had been absolutely no way to talk her out of it. She’d been bouncing on her heels at the very thought of it, and continued to do so as they made their way to the designated meeting point.

Not even the fights they get into with the local gang are enough to dampen her excitement.

Isabela’s pacing back and forth when they find her. She looks up when they approach, frowning, “There you are. I’ve been here for hours and there’s been no sign of Hayder anywhere. No one’s shown up. I don’t like this.”

“‘I don’t like this’? That’s right up there with, ‘What could possibly go wrong’!” Varric crosses his arms.

There’s a flurry of footsteps coming from one of the streets. A group of people appear, each of them heavily armed and armoured. Their leader, a tall woman with dark hair and a sneer on her lips, points at Isabela.

“That’s the wench we’re looking for! Gut her!”

Isabela pulls her daggers out in a flash, twirling them in her hands as she plunges into the fight.

With Isabela and Carver on the frontlines, there’s little need for Gareth to fill in. It allows him to slide in as support, a role that he’s long since grown used to. He’s able to practice the spells that Merrill has been teaching him – most of which come from her memory of the texts she read as First in her clan.

While his spirit bolts aren’t strong enough to take out an enemy completely, they do stun them long enough for either Isabela or Carver to finish them off. Or Varric.

Beside him, Merrill metes out destruction as easy as if it’s breathing. She’s like Bethany. She lives and breathes the more ‘traditional’ forms of magic; the ones that people think of when they imagine a mage.

He seals up a gash in Isabela’s arm, seconds after it forms; shores up both hers and Carver’s energy, keeping them in the fight for longer. If anyone _does_ manage to squeak through their line, he takes care of it – the blade of his stave flashing crimson in the moonlight.

It’s not a long fight.

Isabela wipes sweat from her brow, “Hayder sent them. Search the bodies. I need to find out where he is.”

“Oh! I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. It’s not rude to introduce myself, is it?” Merrill blinks at Gareth, wide-eyed with her eyes glowing in the moonlight.

“No, Merrill, it’s not.”

“Good! Right, well, I’m Merrill as you probably just heard.”

Gareth, crouched down beside the body of the leader, smiles as he watches Merrill awkwardly introduce herself to Isabela. He finds a small, folded piece of paper in one of the dead woman’s pouches, which, he finds, has orders scrawled on it; including a description of Isabela and where to find her. It also says where to find the man they’re looking for.

“Well, aren’t you sweet?” Isabela bows with a great flourish. “I’m Isabela, previously _Captain_ Isabela. Sadly, though, without my ship I can no longer claim that title.”

“You were a captain? Oh! You must have some very exciting stories! You should share them sometime!” Merrill bounces onto the balls of her feet, grin huge. “It would be nice, you know, to hear them.”

“I’d be more than happy to,” Isabela replies, straightening her back. She rolls her shoulders. “But, I think that first we should finish up with Hayder. Once I’m out of danger, I’ll tell you about another duel I fought that wasn’t quite so harrowing.”

“I’d like that,” Merrill says.

“Not to interrupt,” Gareth stands, brushing dust from his pants. “But I found this.”

He hands the letter to Isabela, who unfolds it. She scowls, “Hiding in the Chantry and sending thugs to finish me off? Coward. He’ll not get away with this. Let’s go.”

Before they leave for the Chantry, they pause so that Merrill can burn the bodies of the raiders.

Luckily, the Chantry’s not far from the Keep. It’s only one street over and then they’re brought into sight of the towering behemoth that is Kirkwall’s Chantry. Gareth’s a little surprised that the Chantry’s doors aren’t locked at night, but then he recalls that the doors are supposed to be open to all. Perhaps that’s the benefit of being in a large city, because he knows that Lothering’s always locked its doors at night.

It makes the Chantry the perfect place for clandestine midnight meetings. Likely not why its doors are left open, but the seedier parts of the population know it well.

“Isabela.” Hayder is a large man, taller than Gareth by a good two heads and wider than him several times over. He has a sword sheathed at his waist and several armed guards at his back. “Should’ve known you’d find me here.”

“Tell your men to burn the letters next time,” Isabela retorts. She crosses her arms, hip popped out, and regards Hayder with a dark glare and matching scowl.

“Castillon was heartbroken when he heard about the shipwreck,” Hayder says, pressing a hand over his heart, making a mockingly sad face. “You should’ve let him know you survived.”

Isabela shrugs, “It must have slipped my mind.”

“Where’s the relic?”

“I lost it. Castillon’s just going to have to do without.”

Hayder frowns, all humour draining from his face, “Lost it? Just like you ‘ _lost_ ’ a ship full of valuable cargo?”

“They weren’t cargo, Hayder, they were people!” Isabela snaps, shoulders bristling.

“Those slaves were worth a hundred sovereigns a head, and you let them scurry off into the wilds. And now the relic’s gone, too. Castillon’s not gonna be happy to hear that, I promise you.”

“You don’t have to tell Castillon about Isabela,” Gareth says. It’s useless, but he at least can try to defuse the situation so it ends in something other than a fight.

“If I cross him, he’ll have me killed,” Hayder says, palm resting on the hilt of his blade. He jerks his chin at Isabela. “And my life is worth is worth more than hers.”

“There’s only one way to settle this.”

Isabela pulls out a small dagger from her belt, which she hurls at one of Hayder’s guards. It pierces the woman’s throat, sending her down, gagging on her own blood as she falls.

The fight in the Chantry is longer and much more bloody than the one they fought in the courtyard earlier.

Gareth wipes the excess blood off his sleeves, grateful for once that the stains don’t show so much on the black fabric. Still, he thinks, glancing at Carver, he and his brother will have to stop and change before they head home; the last thing they need to do is worry their mother by coming home with blood stains on their clothes.

Isabela wrenches her dagger free from the throat, blood pooling on the marble floor.

There will be no hiding that, Gareth thinks with a grimace. Not even with Merrill taking care of the bodies so that no one finds them. And to keep the Chantry from an infestation of possessed corpses.

“It’s better this way,” Isabela says, wiping the dagger clean on the clothes of one of the guards. She sighs, tucking it back into her belt. “Castillon won’t hear about me from Hayder, but he’ll find me eventually. I just have to get him the relic. Simple as that.”

Having finished wiping the blood from his stave, Gareth smiles, “If getting the relic gets Castillon off your back, then I’ll help you retrieve it.”

Isabela sighs and shrugs, “I still don’t know where it is, but you’ll be the first to know if I hear anything.”

She pauses, giving Gareth a careful once over with a keen eye. Then, she smirks, “Anyway, thanks for the help with Hayder. I think I’ll tag along for a while. There might be something I could do for you. And I have a room at the Hanged Man, if you’re looking for some… _company_ later.”

 

 

 

 

The next day dawns bright and early. It’s a typical day about the Hawke-Amell household, with Leandra and Gareth taking care of the little household chores and preparing breakfast. Gamlen disappears, as he always does, for wherever it is that he spends his days when he’s not laying about the small, one-room apartment.

“I’ve got some work down at the docks today,” Carver announces, over the breakfast table.

“Will you be home for lunch? Dinner?” Leandra asks.

Gareth wants to point out that they’re supposed to be meeting that Fereldan Grey Warden today, but Carver isn’t looking at him. Instead, Carver stares at their mother.

“I’ll be home by dinner, at the latest.”

It’s quite obvious that he’s being ignored. And he’s got no idea what he’s done wrong now to deserve his brother’s cold shoulder.

“Well, that sounds reasonable. And… I can’t complain about the coin that it brings, since we need it so desperately,” Leandra says, at long last. She smiles at Gareth, “What about you, dear? What do you have planned for today?”

Gareth blinks, “Oh. I’m meeting with someone about the expedition. They’re a contact of Varric’s, hopefully they’ll be able to help us.”

“And you’ll be safe?” Leandra asks, laying a hand on Gareth’s forearm.

He lays one of his own over hers, squeezes it, and smiles at her reassuringly. “Don’t worry, mother. Varric will be with me and I’ll take Merrill and Isabela with me as well.”

“You’ll have to bring Isabela around sometime so I can meet her. For dinner, maybe? Your friend are always welcome here. Now, if you like and they want to, please invite everyone around for dinner tonight. We’ll make a night out of it and I’ll make some sweet buns since Varric is so fond of them.”

“I’m certain that he’d like that.”

“Excellent, then I’ll go shopping today for everything we’ll need,” Leandra smiles. “You’ll meet with Varric and pass along my message. Now, I need to be off. Gareth, you can take care of cleaning up?”

“I’ve got it handled.”

He tidies up the table, while Leandra grabs her threadbare shawl and shopping basket then leaves for the bazaar. Meanwhile, Carver goes about splashing water on his face, before he, too, leaves for his busy day down at the docks. Gareth wonders, briefly, who would hire a Fereldan at the Kirkwall docks, but squishes that thought immediately; Carver is grown, he can look after himself.

He doesn’t need his big brother to look out for him any longer.

His hands tremble as he washes the dishes and Gareth has to stop and clench them. It’s ridiculous to feel his stomach drop out at the thought that he might not be needed. For as long as he can remember, Carver has always been at his side. When they’d been younger, they’d been thick as thieves – even after Gareth’s magic awoke. Magic came easily to him – like breathing – and he spent less time with their father than Bethany did.

He misses those days; misses Lothering. Above all, he misses Bethany. Her sweet smiles and kind words, how easily she could read Carver’s moods and give him the occasional slap upside the head when she felt it was warranted. The loss of her presence strikes him, reminds him of the gaping hole inside of him. Its edges might have mended, but the wound is still raw.

Gareth focuses on washing the dishes, drying them, then returning them to their cupboard. He focuses on that, rather than the thoughts of Bethany and her death.

She should be here. He wishes that she was.

Sucking in a hitched breath, Gareth squeezes his eyes shut and swallows back the tears. Even now, he can’t cry. It would be weakness and he needs to be strong; for their mother, for Carver. Gareth knows what he must be done.

He steels himself, then shrugs into his coat, does up the fasteners, and fashions his sash and belts about his waist. Another dawn, another day. He has work that needs to be done.

Gareth locks the door of their small apartment when he leaves.

Varric is waiting for him down by the Hanged Man, chatting up Isabela who he has already given the charming nickname of Rivaini. Shortly thereafter, they’re joined by Merrill, who waves at all of them enthusiastically. And then crushes Isabela in a huge hug.

“That was such a fascinating story! You should tell more, Isabela!” Merrill gushes.

“Glad you liked it, kitten. Now, let me tell you about the time that we…”

Gareth smiles at Varric, “It’s good to see that everyone’s getting along.”

“Junior’s not coming along today?”

“No. He said that he had some work down at the docks today, but he’ll be back in time for dinner. And my mother told me to invite you – she’ll make those sweet buns of hers.” Gareth turns his head, calls over his shoulder, “That invitation goes to you and Isabela too, Merrill!”

“Oh, I couldn’t–”

“You have to come, Isabela! Miss Leandra makes a delicious meal – much better than the mystery stew at the Hanged Man, though that’s rather good sometimes. It depends on the day, I find.”

“Well, um.” Isabela stutters, her face flushing a little. “I… I suppose – if that’s alright…?”

“My mother would like to meet you. It’ll be fine, Isabela. Don’t feel that you have to come if you don’t like to.”

Isabela glances away, then looks back, “Alright, I’ll come. Just this once, though.”

“Excellent.” He watches Isabela return to her story, gesturing as she talks. He glances at Varric, “You heard from Fenris lately? I dropped by his manor late last night, but he wasn’t in.”

“Think he took a merc job I recommended,” Varric replies. “He won’t be back till tomorrow at the earliest.”

“Ah, alright.”

“Worried, Hawke?”

Gareth feels his cheeks heat, “Not at all.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Hawke. Leave it to the experts.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being honest, Varric,” Gareth replies. It’s an old subject of friendly debate between the two of them. And it sparks one now.

“See, and that’s what makes you such a great figure to build a legend around. You’re too good to be true, Hawke.”

“I am not!”

“Ah yes, and there’s that humbleness to add to the pile. It would almost be sickening if I didn’t know how genuine you are,” Varric says, rolling his eyes and grinning. “Don’t worry about it, Hawke. You’re a good friend – the best – and that’s all that matters.”

He’ll take it for a compliment. That’s what Varric means it to be.

The four of them make their way through Kirkwall’s winding streets, through Lowtown, and descending into the depths of the Undercity and Darktown. They follow along behind Varric, who got a tip from one of his contacts, and, thus, knows the way towards where they can find this Grey Warden healer.

Each of them keeps an eye on their surroundings and a hand surreptitiously on their weapons.

Varric leads them to an obscure door, whose only distinguishing feature is the pair of lit lanterns hung on either side of it.

“According to my contact, this is the place.”

Gareth reaches out, turns the handle, and pushes the door open.

He steps into the small, cramped clinic. Nothing really marks it as one, aside from the low slung cots that line the sides of the long room. Each cot has someone in it. Without even having to use his magic, Gareth knows that the people are either sick or injured.

What grabs his attention is the flare of magical energy. He glances towards the opposite end of the clinic and stares.

Having never seen another spirit healer in action, Gareth’s fascinated. He can’t tear his gaze away, watching the healer work. He can sense the flow of magic, the way that it swirls around the boy that he’s healing, and the weakness in the Veil as he works.

With one last flare of bright blue light, the boy gasps and arches up off the cot. As the light fades, he sits up, and an elderly man – likely his father – rushes forward to wrap his arms around his shoulders.

The healer, on the other hand, takes an unsteady step back, his back to them as they approach.

It all happens very quickly.

Grabbing his staff, the healer whirls around, energy crackling.

“I have made this place a sanctum of healing and salvation! Why do you threaten it?!”

Gareth holds his hands up, palms out, “I’m only here to talk.”

“Rumour has it you were a Grey Warden,” Varric says, stepping forward. “We’re interested in getting into the Deep Roads. Do you know a way?”

Rather dumbly, the healer stares at them for several long moments. Then, he pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, “Did the Wardens send you to bring me back? I’m not going. Those bastards made me get rid of my cat. Poor Ser Pounce-a-lot. He hated the Deep Roads.”

“You had a cat named Ser Pounce-a-lot? In the _Deep Roads_?”

“He was a gift,” the healer replies. “A noble beast. He swatted the nose of a genlock, drew blood. Blighted creature nearly tore him in too. I was told I had to give him up as he ‘made me too soft’. I left him with a friend in Amaranthine. I do hope that Velanna takes care of him… she never was fond of cats.”

“I’m… sorry about your cat,” Gareth begins. “But we’re not here on behalf of the Wardens. I’m – we’re part of an expedition to the Deep Roads. Any information you give us could save people’s lives.”

“I will die a happy man if I never think about the blighted Deep Roads again. You can’t imagine what I’ve come through to get here. I’m not interested…” He trails off, glances to the side, and hums thoughtfully. After a long stretch of time, he finally says, “Although… a favour for a favour. Does that sound fair to you? You help me, I’ll help you?”

Gareth feels a tremendous amount of relief. They’re finally getting somewhere.

“Help my expedition reach the Deep Roads, and I’ll do whatever you need,” he promises.

“You don’t ask for my terms?” The healer seems surprised. Then, he grins, “What if I were asking for the knight-commander’s head on a spike?”

Gareth’s eyes narrow, “ _Is_ that what you ask?”

He shrugs, “You decide.”

“What is it that you want?”

“I have a Warden map of the depths in this area,” he says. “But there’s a price. I came to Kirkwall to aid a friend. A mage. A prisoner in the wretched Gallows. The templars learned of my plans to free him. Help me bring him safely past them, and you shall have your maps.” 

“I would help any mage in such circumstances, maps or no.”

The healer smiles, “Now you’re just trying to get on my good side. I’m Anders, by the way.”

Gareth holds out his hand, “Hawke.”

Anders clasps his forearm, “A pleasure to meet you, Hawke. I welcome your aid. I’ve sent word to Karl to meet me in the Chantry tonight. If you’d join us there, after dark, we can make sure that all of us walk free.”

“That sounds good,” Gareth replies. He hesitates, for a moment, then continues, “I was going to ask, though, if you would welcome any help in your clinic.”

Merrill’s occupied herself by poking through the selection of herbs that are stored along one wall, “This is all rather impressive, really. I’m a terrible healer, myself, but Hawke here is excellent, and I’m well-versed in herbal remedies.”

“Thank you, but I–”

Gareth sighs, holds out his hand, and conjures a small fist full of veilfire.

Anders stares. “You’re – you’re an apostate?”

“Born and raised,” Gareth replies. He dismisses the veilfire as easily as he summoned it. “As is Merrill. I trust that you won’t be turning the two of us over to the templars.”

“Of course not!” Anders’ eyes flash brightly, lines of glowing blue coursing up his face. They vanish in an instant and he takes a deep breath. “I apologize. You’re welcome to help me, but I’m not certain as to how much aid you can render.”

“I think I’ll surprise you,” Gareth says, smiling. He sets his stave down, next to Anders’, and rubs his hands together. “Where would you like me to begin?”

Two hours and one smuggled lyrium potion later, and Gareth and Anders have successfully emptied out the entirety of the clinic’s beds.

Gareth feels jittery, and keeps turning his hands over, expecting there to be sparks shooting out of them. His skin feels like it’s buzzing, as though there’s energy crackling underneath the skin. He’s never taken lyrium before and the feeling is rather intoxicating; he felt like he could heal everyone in an instant. Much to his shock and embarrassment, he had. It certainly impressed Anders.

“I hadn’t expected to encounter another spirit healer – much less one outside of the Circle,” Anders comments.

They’re sitting side by side on one of the empty cots, Merrill sitting across from them on the floor. She’s teaching a young boy – one of the city’s many Fereldan orphans – how to carve wood into a variety of little knick-knacks and figures. It’s a skill, she says, that she learned from Master Ilen, though she also says that he’s far more skilled at it than she is.

Isabela and Varric are chatting near the entrance, having just dimmed the lanterns. They’ve been acting, essentially, as guards for the entire time. They watch who comes in and who leaves, making certain that no one leaves in a large group and scrutinizing who enters – just in case the templars have sent an informant or plant to investigate.

“Merrill tells me that they’re – _we’re_ quite rare.”

“Until today, I was convinced I was the only one within Kirkwall,” Anders replies. “I’ve only known one other spirit healer – lovely young lady in the Wardens by the name of Aisling. She’d been in the Circle in Ferelden, but she left with Miri. We only reunited in Amaranthine. I’d have left Ser Pounce-a-lot with her – she was enamored with him – but after what went down, well, she left for Denerim as a go-between.”

“Miri?”

Anders blinks, “Oh, right. Miri is the Warden-Commander. She was actually the one who recruited me – conscripted me, more like. I know that the Weisshaupt Wardens weren’t too fond of her and her maverick ways. She gave me Ser Pounce-a-lot – it was only when she left for Denerim that, well, I decided it was about time I left. I’d go back, though, if she asked.”

“I thought you were done with the Wardens,” Gareth says, eyebrows going up.

“I am. But Miri, well, I owe her. Never met another woman like her and I doubt I ever will.” Anders talks fast, as though there’s too many words in his head and he can’t get them out fast enough. “She’s everything you’d expect from Ferelden’s hero queen.”

That’s when it clicks. Miri is actually Miriella Cousland, now Theirin, the Queen and Hero of Ferelden.

“You _knew_ the Hero of Ferelden?”

To Gareth, she’s little more than a woman he briefly encountered during a bar fight in Dane’s. He hadn’t thought much of her then, except that she was rumoured to be a Grey Warden. She’d introduced herself to Sister Leliana and left with her. It had all happened so fast that he hadn’t had much time to think about it.

“Of course I did. She’s the Warden-Commander, isn’t she? Terrifying in a fight, she is, but I’d rather have her on my side then face her down.”

“I can imagine,” Gareth replies, dryly. “I only saw her once, when she passed through Lothering. I didn’t know who she was then, but she wiped the floor with the men in Dane’s.”

“You’re from Lothering?”

Gareth nods, “Highever, originally. That’s where I was born, as were my… siblings. We moved to Lothering after my magic awakened.”

“He awakened as a spirit healer, you know,” Merrill says, smiling as she watches the young boy run off to show his father his first carving. “And he’s an excellent student too. Very talented with spirit magic – I’ve not seen the like before.”

Gareth flushes, “Merrill–”

“Really? That’s amazing! It took me years of study and, well, it’s a long story, but I haven’t been a spirit healer myself for very long. But you actually awakened as one?”

“Yes, I did. It’s always come very easily to me; my magic awoke when I saved a man from dying. The effort of doing so nearly killed me.” Gareth pauses, then adds, “I was five at the time.”

“ _Five_?” Anders stares. “That’s incredibly young. Mine awakened when I was… twelve, I think? The majority of mages I knew in the Fereldan Circle awakened between the ages of seven and ten, if I recall right. Anything younger than that is nearly unheard of.”

Gareth shrugs, “It scared the hell out of my parents, that I do know. It’s the only time I can remember my father looking so afraid.”

“If you don’t mind, who taught you to use magic?” Anders asks. “You’ve obviously been trained and trained well.”

“My father,” Gareth replies. “He was an apostate. As was… my sister.”

“She’s…?”

“Dead.” Gareth stares at his hands in his lap, flexing them and ignoring the shards of ice that stab him in the chest. “She was killed when we fled the Blight. I couldn’t save her.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Anders says softly, laying a hand on Gareth’s shoulder and squeezing. After a few moments, he drops it, and changes the subject, “And you’ve been raised as an apostate? Outside of the Circle?”

He’s grateful for the change in topic. It’s easier to talk about something that isn’t Bethany.

“My parents raised us to accept our magic and know that it’s a tool to be used – not for our own benefit, but that of others. Father often said that magic is meant to serve that which is best in us, not that which is most base.”

Anders nods, “Magic is a tool, like anything else. It’s the mage that wields it who determines whether its used for good or ill. Andraste only speaks on the latter and that’s the problem as we’re all judged the same.”

“The Dalish believe that magic is a gift,” Merrill pipes up. “It’s treasured amongst our people, though we realize that we’re rather unique in that.”

“So why aren’t you with your clan, then? The only other Dalish mage I met was exiled,” Anders remarks. “And she was always very bristly about the topic, too.”

Merrill’s mouth thins into a line, “I have to follow my own path – for the betterment of my people. They may not appreciate what I’m doing, but it’s important for us to preserve the past. Tradition is important and I’m trying to keep us from losing another piece of our heritage.”

“So I see.”

Gareth sighs, feeling strangely drained. He wonders if it’s a side effect of the lyrium. There’s a slight tremble in his hands that wasn’t there before and he feels tired, much more so than he had earlier. Maybe it’s something that one has to adjust to; Anders isn’t shaking at all, Gareth notes, so that must be it.

“Merrill’s been teaching me a little,” Gareth says. “I have to admit that, healing aside, I’m a pretty terrible mage.”

“Healing is the dominion of the creation school of magic. Though, spirit healers fall between creation and spirit. That it comes so naturally and easily to you is actually pretty rare; those schools usually take years of study and practice to master.”

Anders gets up and ventures over to a small alcove at the back of the clinic. After a few moments of rifling through a canvas bag, he returns with a thin and very battered looking tome. He hands it to Gareth.

“If you have a talent for it, we should be able to teach you to use glyphs in combat. We can start with the theory behind it. After all, you need to know what each glyph means if you’re to use them effectively. Once you’ve mastered that, we can move on to the practicalities of actually _using_ them. Once you have that down, I’ll see what I can remember and what you might be able to master.”

Looking down at the book, the leather has begun to peel and scale from wear and age. The pages, when he opens it, are water stained and scored heavily with a rough scribble.

“This is–”

Anders grins, “Do take care of my grimoire, Hawke. I’m entrusting it to you for now.”

 

 

 

 

Although Gareth extends the invitation to dinner to Anders, he declines on the grounds of not wanting to be an unexpected guest. He does make sure that Gareth knows where to meet him that evening, however, and states that he looks forward to working together.

Dinner is, as it always is when everyone’s invited over, a lively affair. Leandra spends it chatting to Isabela, telling her all about life in Lothering along with several embarrassing incidents from his and Carver’s childhood. She does, however, avoid mention of Bethany too much; and when she talks of her, it’s in glowing terms, though a shadow steals across her face.

Even now, over a year later, Bethany’s ghost hovers about their family.

It’s long past tenth bell when Leandra finally retires. Aveline helps Gareth with the clean-up, then they all leave to meet Anders at the Chantry.

“So, who exactly are we meeting tonight? And what have you promised to do _this time_ , Gareth?”

“His name is Anders,” Gareth replies. “He’s a former Grey Warden from Ferelden. We’re meeting a friend of his in the Chantry – to make sure that he leaves safely.”

“Oh? And that’s all?” Aveline crosses her arms.

“There’s a chance there _might_ be templars,” Gareth says.

“Templars?!” Carver stares. “Are you serious?!”

“If we’re lucky, there won’t be any. And if there are, well, we deal with them.”

Carver’s hand smacks against his forehead loudly, “Gareth, you are a complete fucking idiot. We can’t fight _templars_!”

“I agree. What made you think that this could possibly be a good idea?” Aveline demands.

“Hey, calm down,” Varric interjects. “Look, he’s a Warden. He’s got a map of the Deep Roads – which we _need_ if we want this expedition to go through. And Hawke’s right. If there’s templars, we’ll take care of them. No one ever has to know it was _us_.”

Aveline shakes her head and sighs, “I suppose… but I don’t like it. You’re certain this is worth it?”

“He’s been helping the Fereldan refugees as a healer since he arrived,” Gareth says. “And Varric’s right about the maps. No one will suspect that we were involved, Aveline, I promise.”

“I don’t like it,” Carver says. “But you’re right. We need those maps. But you couldn’t have found a _better_ way to get them than have us facing down templars?”

“This was the only way he’d agree to share them with us. We do this, we get the maps. Simple as that.”

Hopefully, it will be that easy.

Knowing his luck, it likely won’t be.

The streets are largely deserted, which Gareth takes as a good sign. There’s no sight of a templar anywhere, with only a few stragglers from the day hurrying back to their homes. By the time that the eleventh bell rings, they reach the top of the stairs that lead into Kirkwall’s Chantry.

Detaching himself from the shadows, Anders comes out to greet them.

“I saw Karl go inside a few minutes ago and no templars so far. Are you ready?”

Gareth nods, “I didn’t see anyone suspicious out here. Let’s get this over with and quickly.”

“Alright,” Anders agrees. “I’ll handle the talking. You watch for for templars.”

Their footsteps echo loudly in the cavernous space of the Chantry. It’s one positive, as it means that it would be impossible for anyone to sneak up on them. Despite the violence that went down recently, there’s not even a single guard posted. Gareth’s a little surprised; he’d thought that the blood stains would arouse more concern.

Anders leads them up onto one of the galleries that overlooks the first floor, past the giant statue and the pulpit from which the Grand Cleric preaches from when Gareth attends services with their mother. Their footsteps, once they reach the top of the stairs, are muffled by the carpet that covers the marble tiles.

He keeps a hand on his stave, trying to make out any sound that’s out of place. He hears nothing.

The single soul, besides them, in the Chantry is the man that they’ve come to meet. He stands, absolutely motionless, in one of the alcoves, facing a shrine dedicated to Andraste.

“Anders,” he says, voice soft and eerily level. “I know you too well. I knew you would never give up.”

“What’s wrong? Why are you talking like–”

Turning, the first thing that Gareth spots is the brand on the man’s forehead. A sun.

Gareth’s only ever heard of the Tranquil brand; heard of it in fearful whispers between his parents in the dead of night when he was young. Because of them and the sacrifices they made, he never knew what it meant. The Tranquil were little more than a distant thought, a few of the what if that stalked thoughts of the Circle.

Being confronted with one, now, is nothing like Gareth had ever believed.

It’s incredibly unsettling. Only when confronted with absence, does something seem so obvious. The Tranquil’s face is emotionless, betraying nothing, and he stands perfectly still as he turns to face him. There’s no personality to the movements, no shifts of discomfort or anything. He simply stands, stares at them – stares right _through_ them.

“I was too rebellious,” he says in that same softly bland voice. “Like you. The templars knew I had to be… made an example of.”

“No!” Anders is shaking, hands clasped tightly at his sides, and blue light flickers around his hands. There are tears caught in his lashes.

“How else will mages ever master themselves? You’ll understand, Anders. As soon as the templars teach you to control yourself.”

As he says the words, Gareth turns to find that their exit has been cut off. Three templars stand between them and freedom. The templars, despite their helmets, seem as surprised to see them as they are to see the templars.

“This is the apostate.” Unlike the templars, the Tranquil has no reaction to the addition of others.

“Thought there was only supposed to be the one.”

“Doesn’t matter, we bring them all in.”

“No!”

There’s a flash of brilliant blue light and all Gareth’s aware of is that Anders is the centre of this supernova of light. Lines of glowing blue trace themselves along his skin, flaring bright and vividly through his clothes. When he stands, his eyes have completely gone that same shade of blue – shining like two stars in his face.

When he speaks, he no longer sounds _quite_ like Anders.

“You will never take another mage as you took him!”

One of the templars never gets a chance to do anything but stare. Anders summons a wall of ice spikes that impale the templar straight through. When released, he collapses to the floor, blood pooling under him and running along the lines of the tiles.

It’s a short and brutal fight, all of it taking place in close quarters.

Isabela takes one templar down, jamming her daggers through the weak points at the armpits and letting the man collapse to bleed out on the floor.

The other is luckier. Aveline strikes first, taking his head clean off.

As always, Merrill takes care of the clean-up, carefully burning the bodies and doing her best not to singe the carpet too badly. Hopefully, no one will notice and dismiss the marks as little more than wear and tear; certainly the carpet has seen _much_ better days.

Anders is still glowing that brilliant, burning blue, twirling his staff in hand. His face is twisted into a snarl, as though more templars hide behind every pillar and corner.

“I – Anders, what did you do?”

Gareth stares. The man who only minutes earlier stood there unflinching now stares at them with wide eyes and a worried mouth beneath his beard.

“It’s like… you brought a piece of the Fade into this world. I had already forgotten what that feels like.”

It’s enough to startle Anders out of whatever reverie he’s sunk into. The blue glow fades rapidly and he spins around. His face is torn between joy and sorrow, like he can’t decide how to feel at that instant.

“I thought the Tranquil were cut off from the Fade forever,” Gareth says, unable to not comment on the development. He grew up with the constant fear of being made Tranquil; he may be an apostate, but he knows what it means.

“When you’re Tranquil,” he explains quickly. “You never think on your life before.” He stares at Anders, bit like a fish out of water, “But it’s like the Fade itself is inside Anders. Burning like a sun.” Lunging out, he takes both of Anders’ hands in his tightly, squeezing them as they tremble, “Please! Kill me before I forget again! I don’t know how you brought it back, but it’s fading!”

“Karl, I...”

Anders looks to Gareth, as though he can somehow fix this. But Gareth knows that despite the reputation of spirit healers as being miracle workers, he’s as powerless in this instant as Anders is. There’s nothing they can do for Karl but give him the death that he asks for.

Resting a hand on Anders’ shoulder, Gareth squeezes it, “I would rather die than be Tranquil. Help him.”

Anders makes a sound like a choked sob, and nods. He looks at Karl and pulls back his hands.

Already, the personality and emotion have fled from Karl’s face. Once more, he stares at them blandly. All he says to Anders is, “Why do you look at me like that?”

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Anders withdraws a short knife from his belt. He steps toward Karl for one last embrace, whispering, “Goodbye.”

Karl makes no noise. He simply crumples in Anders’ arms. Slowly, Anders lowers him to the floor and watches wordlessly as Merrill quietly puts him to the flame.

“We should leave before more templars come,” Anders says, turning away. He strides out of the cathedral and does not look back once.

Outside the Chantry, in the cool night air, Gareth turns to Anders and asks, “That wasn’t normal magic you just did, was it?”

“I…” Anders rubs his face with both hands, sighs. “This is hard to explain.”

“Please try.”

Aveline and Carver area ahead of them, scouting the area ahead just in case that gang decides to make a comeback. It’s unlikely, but possible. That leaves Merrill, Gareth, and Varric to listen to Anders’ confession.

“When I was a Warden in Amaranthine, I met a spirit of Justice who was trapped outside of the Fade,” Anders begins, slowly. “We became friends. And he recognized the injustice that mages in Thedas face every day.” Voice shaking, Anders continues, “He was far better to me than I have been to him. To live outside the Fade, he needed the host. I thought… a willing friend, a ready host… but I guess there was too much anger inside me. Once he was in, he… _changed_.”

Merrill hums softly, “And that was when you became a spirit healer?”

“Yes. I had been studying to become one when I left the Circle, but it wasn’t until Justice and I – well, that I actually became one.” Anders runs a hand through his hair. “I thought I was helping him. But my anger… he is no longer my friend, Justice. He is a force of vengeance. And he has no grasp of mercy.”

Though it seems vastly small, Gareth says, “This is obviously difficult for you. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Anders shakes his head and offers a wavery smile, “You’re the first one I’ve told this. Thank you for not running away. My maps are ours, as am I, if you wish me to join your expedition. I thought I was done with the Wardens, but… if you have need of me, I will help.”

“Thank you,” Gareth replies. “Really, I appreciate all you’re doing.”

“It’s the least I can do after… well, thank you. Again, for your help.”

Merrill’s face is set in a deep frown, but she says nothing about the exchange. As a matter of fact, she’s awfully quiet the entire way back to Lowtown. She only speaks once they’ve dropped Anders off at the entrance to Darktown, and she has the privacy of it just being her and Gareth.

“He’s… rather idealistic about spirits,” Merrill says, softly. “I would be careful, Hawke. Possession… even by a spirit, can make someone… volatile. He may not wholly be himself any longer.”

“I’ll be careful, Merrill,” Gareth says, smiling. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Right. Of course I don’t. Well, this is me. I hope I’ll see you tomorrow. Maybe. And thank your mother for dinner again, it was lovely.”

“Of course, Merrill.”

Returning home, Carver says nothing to him and drops off to sleep immediately. Gareth, however, stays up late into the night, staring at the ceiling and thinking. He has a lot to think about, and his thoughts plague him for hours until, eventually, he finally falls asleep.


	7. of the shadow that comes

Let it be said that, with Isabela, things are never boring.

When Gareth stops by the Hanged Man one morning, she’s at the bar, which has fast become her favourite haunt. When she spots him, she grins and leans back against it, showing off the long, curved lines of her body.

“You here to buy me a drink? Or you looking for some company?”

“Neither,” Gareth replies. He actually came to talk to Varric about the approaching deadline to meet with Bartrand about the expedition, but Isabela looks like she’s got something cooking. “Something wrong?”

“Not wrong, per say, but… You’re still looking for work, right? Because I’ve got a friend who could use some help.”

“A friend of yours is a friend of mine,” Gareth says. “What can I do to help?

“He didn’t say and I didn’t ask, but I’m sure you’re up to it.” Isabela pushes away from the bar, cocks her head towards the stairs, “His name’s Martin and he’s got a room here in the Hanged Man. We can go meet him now, if you like.”

“Sounds good.” His business with Varric can wait; they’re still a few sovereigns short of the fifty sovereign goal. If Isabela’s friend Martin pays well, then they’ll be in the clear and he can meet with Varric later with the good news.

“How do you know Martin?” Gareth asks, as they climb the stairs.

“Oh, we used to be in the raiders together. Fought at each other’s backs for a while, too. He was one of the best men that I knew – in a fight, I mean.”

Gareth nods.

Isabela doesn’t even bother knocking at Martin’s door. She simply opens it and strides in as though she owns the place.

“Hey! What are you–”

“My, you’re jumpy!” Isabela remarks. “Look at you, cowering in a corner. What happened to the fearless, dashing raider I used to know?”

Martin’s got at least ten years on Gareth, likely more. His face is weatherbeaten, heavily lined, and his hair line’s begun to recede. When Isabela swanned in, he’d leapt out of his chair, nearly stumbling over his own feet as he did. There’s a nasty, ropey scar along the length of his neck. Someone clearly had tried to slit it at some point; since it’s still an angry shade of red, it’s likely a recent addition.

“I’m not a raider anymore, Isabela,” Martin replies, scowling. “I’m just an honest merchant now.”

Isabela scoffs, “Please, Martin. You wouldn’t know honest if I tied you up and spanked you with it.”

Gareth clears his throat, his face already heating up, “Isabela’s told me all about you, Martin.”

“Isabela, I thought I told you to be discreet,” Martin sighs. He rubs his temples with his hands. “I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? We might as well get down to business.”

“What was it that you needed help with exactly?” Gareth asks, ignoring Isabela who leans against the doorframe, examining her nails.

“I need someone to help me find out where the raiders have hidden my stolen cargo,” Martin replies. “This job’s as easy as a peg-legged tavern wench and there’s good coin in it to boot.”

Returning to his seat in front of the tiny fire pit, Martin steeples his fingers, “You’ll need to look around the docks. I couldn’t get anywhere down there, asking questions, but you look like the sort of man who can get answers. The crates bear the seal of the Orlesian port authority, so you’ll know it when you see it.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Gareth promises.

“Good. I’ve had it with the raiders and this cargo is the key to getting me on the straight and narrow. You’re doing me a huge favour here, friend. Thank you, and be careful.”

“Always am, but thank you.”

He leaves the Hanged Man with Isabela, who walks with a swagger and her arms behind her head.

“Just so you know, I’m not yet convinced that you are, in fact, an actual person.”

“I – what?”

She glances over at him, “I mean, who offers to just help a complete stranger out of the blue? You were perfectly prepared to leap into that fight before you even knew who I was.”

“It’s the right thing to do! You were clearly in trouble! I – you’re laughing at me.”

Isabela’s practically doubled over with laughter as they walk. After a while, she straightens, wiping a non-existent tear from her face, “I just can’t believe that you’re _this nice_. I thought people like you only existed in stories they tell children; not real life.”

“I don’t see what’s so bizarre about helping others. If they need help and you’re able, you should help them. It’s only the right thing to do.”

“There you go again about the ‘right thing’,” she jabs her finger at him. “If I’d told you nothing about Martin, would you still have helped him if he asked?”

“I would have. He’s your friend, Isabela. I would’ve helped him no matter what. Just like how I helped you.”

She pokes him, lightly, in the arm, “Huh, look at that. You are real.”

“And you’re being childish.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Someone has to be the mature one around here; it’s clearly not going to be you.”

“And I’d have it no other way. Let you be responsible, I’ll be over here. Having fun.”

“Ha ha.”

Since Gareth doesn’t expect to be at the Docks long, he pays a young orphan a few silver to take a message to Varric for him – letting him know where he’s going and that he’ll stop by later. Then, he and Isabela continue to make their meandering way down to the docks in search of Martin’s illegally appropriated cargo.

Finding dockworkers is easy. Getting answers, as Gareth quickly discovers, is much harder.

“I’m looking for some cargo,” he says to one man.

“You’re in luck,” he replies, throwing his arms out to indicate the boxes he’s surrounded by. “Cargo all around. Take your pick.”

Gareth resists the urge to roll his eyes, and presses on, “I could use your assistance. I’m looking for crates sealed by the Orlesian port authority.”

“Haven’t seen any, sorry,” the man shrugs.

Another man, having heard their conversation, sets down the barrel he’s hauling and comes over. He’s marginally more useful, “Talk to the harbor master. I’ll bet he’s got information about your cargo. He should be in his office – just back that way. You can’t miss it.”

“Hey! If you’re done wagging your tongue, can we get those sacks off the docks?”

“Well, we _could_ if you wanted to do anything other than complain…”

Retracing their steps, Gareth thinks that Isabela _probably_ could’ve been a little more useful. He’s spent the past hour trying to get information out of the dockworkers, with about as much luck as getting water from a stone. He tries very hard not to be resentful, succeeds only because he’s distracted by being abruptly confronted by the harbormaster when they enter his open air ‘office’.

“Shipping manifest?”

Gareth blinks, “I’m looking for cargo bearing the seal of the Orlesian port authority.”

The harbor master groans, waves Gareth off, “Aden! Deal with this!”

Wandering over to a battered, weathered desk, the harbor master proceeds to ignore them. He’s replaced by a much younger man, who has a simpering expression on his face. He clasps his hands together, smiles a thin little smile, eyes pinching at the corners.

“I apologize on Liam’s behalf,” he begins, sounding rehearsed. “He is a very, very busy man. I’m Aden, the harbor master’s assistant. I understand you’re looking for cargo bearing the seal of the Orlesian port authority. I’ve seen the crates, but can’t remember where. _Such_ a shame.”

“Get to the point.”

“The clink of gold coin often jobs my memory.”

Gareth sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, “I’m not paying for this.”

He doubts that he could afford to.

“Then I’m deeply sorry I could not be of more assistance.” Aden smirks at him, “Good day.”

Isabela, who has been watching him the entire time, peels away from her place at the entrance to Liam’s office. She nudges Gareth gently with her elbow, then leans in to whisper, “Liam leaves his office at nightfall and _frequently_ leaves his desk unlocked. We could sneak in after dark, take a look at his records.”

Finally, a break.

Gareth nods, “Then we’ll meet back here at, what, half-past tenth bell?”

“Knew I liked you for a reason,” Isabela grins, kissing his cheek.

 

 

 

After splitting from Isabela, Gareth returns to the Hanged Man to check in with Varric.

“Not much has changed,” Varric says. “Bartrand’s still got no leads on where to get the remaining funding for the expedition – _luckily_ – and Blondie held up his end of the deal.” Varric gestures to the map spread out on the table in front of him and grins, “We’ve got at least four entrances in the area.”

“That’s good, right? That we’ve got options?”

“Good? It’s excellent! I can’t wait to see the look on Bartrand’s face!” Varric claps his hands together, “Anyway, anything you needed me for?”

“I was going to venture down to Darktown for a little, see if Anders needed any help in his clinic.”

“I’ll tag along,” Varric says. He rolls up the map and stows it with an assortment of other books and scrolls on his bookcase. “Someone’s gotta keep you and Blondie out of trouble, after all.”

 

 

 

“Ah, good, you’re here! You can start over there!” Anders waves his hands towards one row of cots, already busy tending to a young girl who is nursing a clearly broken arm.

Gareth sets to work immediately, making his way slowly through each patient and working to cure what ails them. It’s not all magic and healing, sometimes it’s prescribing an herbal remedy or dispensing with some much needed advice. But he’s helping, and that’s all that matters to Gareth.

By the time that he’s finished with his group of patients, it’s already late into the afternoon. His knees ache as he pushes himself up from spending so much time kneeling on the rough stone floor. And his head spins a little when he stands, but that’s all fixed with a little pulse of healing magic – just enough to keep him going for the moment.

“Here,” Anders says, offering Gareth a small vial. “Don’t worry. I learned my lesson from last time – this one’s _far_ more diluted.”

“Thank you.”

He downs the lyrium potion, feeling it tingle down his throat and shoot through his veins. It’s far less potent than the last one, but it still leaves him with a buzzing of energy flowing through him. Good thing he’s not going straight home tonight, he thinks.

“It can take some getting used to – the lyrium,” Anders says, settling on an empty cot beside Gareth. “I hadn’t thought about how you wouldn’t have access to it as an apostate. It’s… easy to forget that you didn’t have the same experiences I did.”

“My father rarely spoke of the Circle.” Gareth rolls the empty vial between his fingers. “He spoke more of his time with a mercenary band that he joined after he left. I think he didn’t want me and… Bethany to think too much of it. After all the sacrifices they made for us… it would’ve been pretty irresponsible of us to throw that all away.”

“It’s no life for anyone to live,” Anders snaps. “Sorry, I didn’t – last time things got a little weighty. I didn’t mean for them to be.”

“You don’t have to apologize; I understand. And you can tell me anything, Anders.”

“Anything? Be careful what you offer there, Hawke.”

“I’d like us to be friends. Friends listen to each other.”

Anders cocks his head to the side, looks at Gareth, “You remind me of Aisling, you know. A bit of Miri, too. She recruited me into the Wardens barely knowing who I was except that I was wanted by the templars for fleeing the Circle. Invoked the Rite of Conscription, too, to keep me out.”

“So, in a way, you owe her your freedom?”

“I suppose so. She was… sympathetic to mages. It surprised me; I hadn’t expected for any to care, but she did.” Anders stares at his hands, “But I suppose it makes sense. Aisling wasn’t the only mage who travelled with her during the Blight.”

“Tell me more about them. They clearly mean a lot to you.”

“Oh, well. There’s not much to tell, really. Aisling and I weren’t ever really close when she was in the Circle. We knew _of_ each other, but didn’t really _know_ each other. She was a favourite of the First Enchanter, I do know that much. She left with Miri when she came to the Circle in Ferelden during the Blight. She volunteered right then and there to join the Grey Wardens.”

“After Ostagar, they must have been pretty desperate for recruits.”

“You would think, but she didn’t actually undergo her Joining until we met again in Amaranthine. We underwent ours together.” He pauses, taps his fingers against his thigh, “Miri was always rather fond of her. I’d thought there’d been something more between them, but when the king showed up, you could tell that she didn’t have eyes for anyone besides him.

“Besides which, turns out Aisling had someone of her own. They seemed quite fond of each other, given the number of letters that they exchanged… and Aisling never could stop talking about her.”

“They sound pretty amazing. I wish I could’ve met them.” Gareth hums, “The only encounter I had with her majesty was very brief. I only really glimpsed her in Dane’s. I’d have joined in the fight, but I couldn’t risk drawing attention to myself.”

“Knowing Miri, she likely had it handled without you,” Anders replies, smiling. “She’s always been the best of us Wardens.”

Neither of them say anything, instead watching as Varric sharpens and checks his bolts near the entrance to the clinic, chatting pleasantly with one of the refugees as he does.

“I never did ask, but who taught you how to fight?” Anders asks. “I’ve known plenty of mages in my time, but none who would throw themselves into a fight they way you do.”

His throat swells a little and he swallows the tightness down. “My father taught my brother and I to fight. He’d picked up swordsmanship as a mercenary and taught the both of us – but I took better to the stave. It was better for me, with my magic, to have distance between me and anyone or anything that attacked me.”

“You needed to learn to fight without using magic?”

“There were bandits, on occasion. The road from our farm into Lothering could be dangerous at times, so it was reasonable that we needed to defend ourselves. When darkspawn started to be spotted further south coming from the Wilds, it became even more important.” Gareth shrugs, “My sister learned to fight too, but she had magic to back her up. I was never very good at primal magic; could barely conjure a flame growing up.”

“You’ve managed with what Merrill’s taught you thus far.”

“It’s new, but it feels… natural? I’ve always felt that my magic was to help others – not harm them.”

Anders sighs, leans back on his hands, “Hawke, you know… you’re exactly what the mage underground needs. You’re a mage – raised an apostate! – who has lived their entire life outside of the control of the Chantry and the Circle. You’re a perfect example of how we can live without the Circle.”

“What about Merrill? She, too, is a born and raised apostate.” Gareth knows that the blood magic disqualifies her, but Merrill has been nothing but a good and steady friend to him. She’s done nothing to prove herself untrustworthy.

“Well, the Dalish are always an exception, aren’t they? Their mages have always existed outside of the Circle; you’d think that would prove we don’t need to be made prisoners for fear of our powers, but it’s not.”

Gareth frowns, stares at the wall, “I never gave much thought to the Circle before I came to Kirkwall. It was simply something that we constantly lived in fear of – especially when my father passed and… I became head of our family. Then it was always a careful balancing act; I couldn’t do too much, for fear that the templars would descend upon our family. It’s not just me who would be in danger should I be found out.”

“Right. You’re… right. I’m sorry. I forget that you have a family. It’s… easy to forget and I apologize for that.”

Gareth smiles, “It’s alright. I’m sure you’ll get used to it.”

 

 

 

He ends up bringing Varric and Anders along when he goes to meet Isabela that night at the Docks. She’s leaning casually against one of the columns that overlooks the qunari compound, a thoughtful look on her face.

“Something on your mind?” Gareth asks.

Isabela snorts, “Just wondering if all qunari go about shirtless all the time. I mean, they have to have women, don’t they?”

“ _That’s_ what you’re thinking so hard about?”

“Yes, what else?” Isabela shrugs. She rubs her hands together, looking positively gleeful. “Now, let’s go take a look and see what Liam’s hiding, shall we? It’ll be fun!”

“When you say fun, Rivaini, it strikes me as the illegal kind,” Varric remarks.

“Borderline,” Isabela replies. “It’s _borderline_. We’re not taking anything; just having a little looksie at the books and then we’ll be putting them right back where we found them.”

“Isabela’s right; we’re only here to find Martin’s cargo. Nothing more.”

“Did this Martin tell you what his cargo is?” Anders asks, as they slip into Liam’s office.

Gareth shrugs, “Only that it was valuable.”

“Right…”

“Found it!” Isabela hisses, jumping up and grinning. She gestures at the note in the book she’s pulled out, “See? Right here!”

The writing is near illegible, but Gareth can make out Liam’s signature on an order to redirect cargo to Woodrow’s Warehouse. Underneath that, added in what has to be Aden’s writing, is an addition that reads: ‘ _Orlesian Port Authority Seal, here? Suggest we apply the “special” rate for this._ ’

Gareth grins at Isabela, “Looks like Aden’s been dealing in more than just simple bribes.”

“Yes it does,” she replies. “He probably gets a cut of the profit from any of those waylaid goods. Or he’s on the raiders’ payroll. Either or, but same result.”

“The raiders? What would the raiders want with a merchant’s cargo?”

Isabela shrugs, “Raiders are opportunists, for the most part. So long as it’s worth something, they’ll go after it. But with Martin? It’s likely personal. He _was_ one of theirs, after all.”

“Delightful.”

Finding the warehouse takes little time. Gareth’s been to the Docks enough times that he knows where the imposing structure is. It’s a large stone structure, carved into and out of the cliffs that make up the harbour itself; everything about the lower levels of the city look as though they were poured into place, and the Docks are no different.

Of course, locating the warehouse is the easy part. Luckily for them, the guard had fallen asleep and they were able to slip inside without notice. But once inside, they’re faced with the daunting task of locating a needle in a haystack, as they say.

Gareth sighs, “This could take hours.”

“Not hours, no,” Isabela replies, she gestures towards one side of the warehouse. “It’ll be along here; everything organized according to where it’s come from. Anyone who’s made port before will know that.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’re here, Isabela,” Gareth smiles. “Otherwise I think we’d be completely lost.”

“I – you’re welcome.”

With Isabela’s help, they’re able to narrow down where Martin’s cargo is based on the authority seals. Locating the Orlesian Port Authority seal is easy, given that it’s quite garish. The lid’s already been pried off, likely so that the contents could be inspected by its thieves.

Anders takes a peek and blanches, “I wouldn’t breathe that in, if I were you. Looks like Martin’s trading in death.”

“Oh,” Isabela coos. “Now _that’s_ the good stuff. I suppose you’d tell on me if I took a little sample.”

“Isabela…”

“Right, right. We’ll get back to Martin with the location, you get your coin. Thank you, though, Hawke.”

“My pleasure.”

It must be a good night, Gareth thinks, because their trek from the docks to the Hanged Man is without incident. Not a single gang bothers them the entire way. It’s quite nice, he admits to himself, to enjoy an eventless stroll through the city at night.

Martin’s waited up for them.

He pops up from his chair when they enter, an expectant look on his face, “So? Where’s it at?”

“Do you know where Alton Woodrow’s warehouse is?”

“Merchant Woodrow’s place? I know it,” Martin replies, grinning. He hands over a small bag of coin. “Thanks for this, friend. You’ve more than earned your reward. Now, I’m gonna see about getting my goods back first thing tomorrow morning.”

Isabela grins, “So… how about a round on me?”

 

 

 

Gareth ends up stumbling home very drunk and very late into the night.

 

 

 

With eyes still a little sensitive to the bright light of morning, Gareth finds a note waiting on their kitchen table addressed to him. Athenril has, as always, come through with a lead for work; Gareth understands it for what it is, a peace offering. Still, the promise of paid work is a good one, and he decides that he’ll seek out Hubert and see what he can do about the problems with the Bone Pit.

After that, when he opens the door, it’s to find Aveline standing on his doorstep, dressed casually but with her sword at her waist and Wesley’s shield slung across her back.

“There you are, Gareth,” Aveline says.

“Aveline? What are you doing here?”

She shrugs, “It’s my day off. I thought I’d come down and visit. And to see what trouble you’ve managed to get yourself mixed up in this time.”

“I’m not mixed up in anything.”

“That remains to be seen. Either you find trouble, or it finds you. It’s as simple as that.”

He sighs, “There’s no winning with you, is there?”

“Not on this, no. Now, what are we up to today?”

“I got a tip that a man’s looking for some help with the Bone Pit,” Gareth explains. “Would you like to come along?”

“The Bone Pit? Ah, yes. It’s owner has been petitioning the guards to send an expedition out to see what’s happened. Unfortunately, it’s out of our jurisdiction and I can’t yet spare the men to do so. Seems worthwhile to check out, though.”

“Right. I was going to see who would be interested in coming along.”

Aveline pauses, “We should bring Fenris. That is, if he’s returned. I’d like to have another warrior on hand, especially one of his calibre. I understand that Carver’s been finding work elsewhere?”

“He says he’s found some work down at the docks. It keeps food on the table and the worst of Gamlen’s debt collectors off our backs, so I can’t really complain.”

Aveline huffs, “It’s under the table work. He could do better.”

“You _did_ reject his application to the city guard.”

“Carver doesn’t always follow orders; not a good quality to have in a city guardsman.”

“Unfortunately,” Gareth sighs. “I don’t know what’s happened. Everything’s been so… different since we arrived here. We used to be close.”

Squeezing his shoulder, Aveline offers him a comforting smile, “We all need to find our place. Carver is just trying to find his. It will work out eventually, don’t you worry, Gareth.”

“Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

When they arrive at the Hanged Man, it’s to find that Isabela is hunting down a lead regarding the relic that she’s after. Varric, however, is more than happy to tag along with them.

“Have you seen Merrill?” Gareth asks. “We stopped by her apartment, but there was no answer.”

“Ah, I think she went down to Blondie’s place to see if he needed any help. She’s been helping out the elves in the alienage with some of those herbal remedies of hers; made herself quite popular, which is good. No better protection than the love of your neighbours.”

“It’s good that she’s beginning to fit in. I was worried about her,” Gareth remarks.

“Hawke, you worry about everyone.”

“I do not!”

“You do,” Aveline responds, matter-of-factly.

Wisely, Gareth decides to bow out of the argument. Better to know when to fold than continue to fight a losing battle.

 

 

 

“Fenris,” Gareth greets, poking his head into the room that Fenris has claimed as his within the large manor. “You up for checking out the Bone Pit?”

Fenris blinks, rather owlishly, “The Bone Pit? Why would you want to go to such a place of death?”

“Well, there’s a gentleman in Hightown who is looking for help with it. From the intel I got, sounds like it’s a mine of some kind.”

“The place is known in the Imperium,” Fenris says, fastening his gauntlets before reaching for his blade. “It’s where they mined the stone that built this city. Many slaves died there. You’re certain you wish to go?”

“We’ll hear him out, at least,” Gareth replies. “People's’ lives could be in danger.”

Fenris frowns, “You would go to help others?”

“Of course. If I can help them, then I will.”

“You are a very strange mage.”

Gareth grins, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Take it as you will.”

 

 

 

Hubert is easy enough to find with his fine manner of dress and distressed expression. He paces about in front of his stall of wares, pausing every now and then to talk to a passerby or prospective customer. Nothing, however, distracts from the worried look on his face, which must be a turnoff to people, as most avoid him or walk away quickly.

“I hear you’re having problems with the Bone Pit,” Gareth greets. “I can help.”

Hubert blinks, looks Gareth up and down, then smiles a thin smile, “Finally! Someone comes to help me! You look a bit unseasoned, but I hope you’ll do.”

He rubs his hands together, “I had to suspend operations. My workers have – according to my reports – either run off or are lost in the mines. Serves me right for hiring Fereldan refugees,” he mutters that last part as an aside, before continuing, “I’ve sent others before, but no word. Perhaps they are putting me off? But no matter. I need someone competent to figure out what is going on.”

“Surely the miners had good reason to leave,” Gareth frowns. Work is so difficult to come by for his people that he can’t imagine any of them running from paid work – as hard or dangerous as it might be.

“I am at a loss! No miner has reported in and no one will take me seriously.” Hubert runs a hand through his hair, causing it to stand up on end. “I have gone to the guards – even attempted to hire a few sellswords, but no one will go.”

“The Bone Pit’s that dangerous that people are afraid to venture there?” He recalls that Fenris called it a place of death and wonders how ominous it is that the locals are afraid to go there; it would explain why they chose to call it the Bone Pit.

“No, nothing like that!” Hubert says quickly. He smiles, “Pay no heed to local superstition. The Bone Pit is _mostly_ harmless.”

Gareth pauses, then nods, “I’ll head there straight away.”

“Thank you, sir! Truly, I am in your debt!”

“The Bone Pit isn’t far from Kirkwall,” Fenris comments. “We should be able to make it there and back within the day, provided that there isn’t much resistance.”

“Do you know anything of the Bone Pit, Varric?”

Varric shrugs, “Place is reputed to be haunted, cursed, all that good stuff. No one in Kirkwall would touch the place. Hubert’s been the first person to show an interest in the place – much less decide it’s a worthwhile operation. He’s a merchant from Antiva, originally, and like he said, about the only people he could find willing to work there were Fereldan refugees from the Blight.”

“So he preyed on the desperate. Lovely.”

“Not many willing to hire Fereldans in Kirkwall,” Varric says. “Don’t know exactly what Hubert pays, but from what I’ve heard it’s not much.”

Aveline grunts, “Ass.”

“You’re not wrong.”

It’s Fenris who takes the lead, though he seems slightly uncomfortable with the role. He leads them out of the city and up a long, winding paved road that leads out of the city and up one of the mountainous cliffs that flank the city.

It takes them the better part of three hours to make their way to the main area of the Bone Pit’s operations. It would have been faster by horseback or cart, but they can’t afford to rent horses from Kirkwall’s stables and no carts are going this way; unsurprising, given the Bone Pit’s reputation.

All they find when they reach the main camp are a small group of looters, likely drawn in by the abandoned state of the place. They’re easy enough to put down, leaving Gareth and the others at the entrance to the mine proper.

“Aveline, you’ll take point, with Fenris,” Gareth says. “I’ll follow with Varric bringing up the rear. We don’t know what we’re dealing with, so we should be prepared for anything.”

Varric, cocking Bianca, mutters, “Knowing our luck, it’ll be bad. Come on, let’s get this over with. There’s a pint at the Hanged Man with my name on it.”

“You buying?” Fenris asks.

“For you? I’ll leave that to Hawke.”

“What–”

“I’ll buy a round,” Gareth says, cheeks warming. “When we get back. You going to come, Aveline?”

“I believe I will.” She pauses, draws her blade, “Wait, I hear something.”

The absolute last thing that Gareth expects to run into are dragonlings.

They’re more difficult to put down than anything they’ve faced yet and they come out of the battle a little singed and more burnt than when they started.

“Dragons? I thought they were supposed to be extinct,” Aveline comments, nudging the corpse of one with her boot.

Gareth shrugs, “I’ve not encountered any before, but I think we’ve found what Hubert’s problem is. We should head further in, check if there’s any survivors.”

“And see if we can find the source of these dragons,” Aveline adds.

The further that they press into the mines, the more dragons they encounter. Luckily, it seems that the only ones are younglings and juveniles, which are considerably easier to put down than their older counterparts would be.

They’re passing through a long passage when they stop, the rush of footsteps reaching their ears.

A man rounds the corner ahead of them, red-haired and soot-faced. He pulls up short when he spots them, planting his hands on his knees and panting.

“Praise Andraste you came along!” he says quickly. “Them dragons would have sniffed me out for certain!”

“Are you alright?” Gareth asks, then, “Did anyone else manage to escape?”

“Try and keep your voice down,” he hisses. “There’s another dragon close by. Some of my fellows ran for the surface. I hope they made it.”

“Fled back to Kirkwall, most likely.”

“You should get out of here,” Gareth says, stepping out of the way. “The path behind us is clear.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice. You should leave too,” he adds. “But don’t go that way! There’s this huge dragon!”

Aveline frowns, stepping up beside Gareth, “Another dragon? And larger? Not a threat we should leave behind.”

“I agree. Varric? Fenris?”

“I’m with you, Hawke,” Fenris says.

Varric thumbs Bianca’s trigger and grins, “Can’t say no to dragon hunting, now can I?”

“How much bigger do you think it could be?” Gareth wonders, following Aveline and Fenris as they make their way out of the mine and onto a large, wide outcropping.

No one answers, because, instead, a dragon drops down onto the outcropping ahead of them.

It’s huge, at least twice Gareth’s height. The dragon’s dark scales gleam in the sunlight and it roars, sending the ground trembling as it does. Sparks of flame fly from its mouth and it claws the ground, preparing to charge at them.

Gareth rolls out of the way, bringing his stave’s blade around as he does. He braces his feet in the dirt, balancing on the balls of his toes. He spots Varric on the other side of the outcropping, readying Bianca and taking careful aim at the dragon’s head.

Slapping her blade against her shield, Aveline draws the dragon’s attention to her. She circles around it, careful to keep her footing and keeping a wary eye on the dragon. When it looks as though the dragon’s bored with following her, she feints to one side, then slashes at its legs. She keeps the dragon’s attention on her, letting Fenris move in for the killing blow.

Varric distracts it further, keeping it from focusing too much on Aveline, by peppering it with bolts from Bianca.

With one hand digging into the dirt, Fenris readies himself, blade ready at his back. He takes a running start, skin blazing blue for a moment as he launches himself into the air. His sword glints in the sunlight as he brings it around and down, plunging it straight through the dragon’s back.

Taking the opportunity, and the dragon’s distraction, Gareth darts in. He brings his stave up, driving it straight under what he assumes is the dragon’s breastbone and through its ribs. With a twist of his stave, he must have found its heart, because it lets out a wrenching howl.

Lashing out at them, Gareth ducks under one of the dragon’s claws, only to nearly be hit by another.

It doesn’t connect.

He’s unharmed because Fenris tackled him to the ground, knocking the wind out of him.

Gareth gasps for breath, eyes a little unfocused, and waits for his lungs to expand once more.

“Hawke?” Fenris asks.

“I’m alright,” Gareth replies. He’s still light-headed and his chest hurts, but he’s unharmed. That’s when he realizes the compromising position that they’re in.

Fenris is crouched over him, straddling Gareth’s thighs, and peering worriedly down at him. So close, Gareth can see the raised brands of lyrium carved into Fenris’ skin and realizes that there’s three dots of them on his forehead. His eyes are, so close, a lovely shade of olive green, flecked through with a little brown.

His cheeks flush, warm and pink, as it sinks in that Fenris is _on top of him_.

Fenris seems to realize it at the same time that Gareth does, because his ears twitch a little and there’s a dusting of rose in his cheeks. His eyes flick away to the side, away from Gareth’s, and he clears his throat awkwardly, before scrambling up and off Gareth.

He’s a little surprised when Fenris extends a hand down to him, Gareth takes it, and lets Fenris help pull him back to his feet. His hand tingles, even after Fenris releases it.

“Fenris,” Gareth says, quietly. “Thank you.”

“I… you’re welcome, Hawke.”

“You two done?” Varric asks, causing the both of them to jerk.

Gareth had forgotten that he and Aveline were there.

“You’re both unharmed?”

Gareth and Fenris nod, avoiding eye contact with each other.

His skin’s still tingling, feeling oddly tight like it’s stretched too thin across his bones. Even as they make their way back to Kirkwall, the feeling doesn’t fade. He feels oddly drawn to Fenris and the two of them are never far as they make their way back. There’s more little touches, helping each other over rough patches or up an embankment, and each one makes his skin flare with heat.

Having never felt like this before, Gareth doesn’t know what to do with it. Was this how his father felt meeting his mother?

Fenris seems just as confused as Gareth is. He won’t meet Gareth’s eyes and there’s a pink stain high in his cheeks. Neither of them say much as they make their way back to Kirkwall, ignoring Aveline’s knowing stern looks and Varric’s good-natured teasing.

“I’ll meet you at the Hanged Man,” Fenris says, the moment that they’re within the city’s walls. “You’re still buying a round, Hawke?”

“Of course.”

Fenris nods, and heads off.

“You know, you should make a move sometime, Hawke,” Varric comments.

Gareth blinks, “I’m sorry _what_?”

“Or are you just waiting for the right moment?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t, Hawke, sure you don’t.”

Gareth chooses to ignore Varric’s smirk and knowing look at the flush of red in his cheeks. The entire way into Hightown, he can feel Varric’s gaze boring into his back. It’s entirely uncomfortable.

Despite the late afternoon heat, Hubert is exactly where they first met him in Hightown. He’s pacing back and forth in front of his stall, arms crossed.

“I solved your problem,” Gareth says, by way of greeting.

“So, what happened?” Hubert asks, stopping his pacing. “One of the miners told me you rescued him from dragons. I cuffed him for lying.”

“Well, he wasn’t. Go to the Bone Pit and see the corpses for yourself.”

“But… they’re extinct!” Hubert stares at him, then shakes his head, trying to regain his formerly affable demeanor. “Eh, I believe you. You made them extinct again, then? If it is safe, then the miners can return to work again.”

Gareth nods, “We eliminated all the dragons. It should be safe enough now.”

“Let us discuss your payment,” Hubert continues. There’s a gleam in his eye as he looks at Gareth, eyeing him from his feet to his head. “You have been a great help. Since you did so much more than I was expecting, how about we work together? I am offering a fifty-fifty share in the mine. You will make us both rich if you can keep your countrymen safe.”

He weighs the options, then nods, “Seems like the miners could use protection… and an advocate.”

 

 

 

With Aveline joining them for drinks at the Hanged Man, none of them think to indulge. Not even Fenris, who usually drinks enough to knock out a man twice his size, drinks more than two tankards.

Varric charms the barmaid with a highly exaggerated tale of their exploits that has even Aveline smothering a laugh into her drink. Fenris smiles at the story, a soft one that he tries to hide behind his tankard, but he fails at and it makes Gareth’s heart thud against his ribcage and his face heat up in ways that drink never has.

He nearly misses his mouth, drink sloshing about his tankard but at the very least it doesn’t spill into his lap. Tearing his eyes away from Fenris, he stares down at the amber liquid, but can’t stop peeking at him from out of the corner of his eye.

“You know, I was right about you, Hawke,” Varric says, leaning back in his chair. “Things are definitely much more exciting with you around.”

Aveline nods, “That’s because he’s always finding his way into trouble.”

“I do not.”

“You do,” Fenris chimes in, taking a drink from his own tankard.

Gareth stares, “I’m clearly outnumbered here.”

“Just accept it,” Aveline recommends. She downs the rest of her drink, and pushes away from the table. “Well, I need to be back in the barracks. You all behave yourselves and I’ll see you around.”

“I should probably be off, too,” Gareth says. “Or else my mother may worry what I’m up to.”

“You send my regards to your mother,” Varric calls. “And thank her for those sweet buns!”

 

 

 

What a new day brings is a young boy stopping Gareth in the market while he helps his mother with the daily shopping.

The boy catches the hem of Gareth’s coat and tugs, “You’re Serah Hawke, right? I’ve a message for you.”

“Who–?”

But he doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentences. The boy shoves a small, folded piece of paper into his hand and then quickly loses himself in the rush of the Lowtown Bazaar. Even when Gareth rolls onto the balls of his feet, he can’t spot the boy and quickly gives up.

“What’s that?” Carver asks, coming up with a fresh loaf of bread.

“A message for me, apparently,” Gareth replies.

They return home, bringing with them the groceries. Once they’ve been put away, Gareth pulls the letter from his pocket, cracks the worn, wax seal, and reads it quietly to Carver. There’s the clink of coin in the envelope.

Their heads touch lightly, leaning together as they are, and Gareth’s reminded of how close they were as children.

He misses that, he realizes with a pang. Misses it terribly.

‘ _Proud scion of the Hawke family,_

_I dare not contact you directly, but we have met before, and I know you to be a person of good character and unusual ability. Indulge me in a meeting outside the city, for I require your aid in a delicate task. As a token of good faith, I have enclosed a modest sum. There will be more waiting if you can help._

_Please come as soon as you receive this. If you do not, the lives of many innocents may be on my hands._

_Sincerely,_

_A friend._ ’

Scratched onto the back of letter is a rough map, indicating a location along the Wounded Coast that’s not far from the city itself.

“What do you think?” Gareth asks.

Carver sighs, “Why do you even bother asking? I already know the answer: we’re going to help.”

“Carver–”

“Don’t ‘Carver’ me. I know you well enough and you’re going to go – whether I say no or not. So, I’ll come – but only to keep you out of trouble.”

 

 

 

Carver insists that they bring Aveline.

“If there’s trouble afoot, trust Gareth to be right at the heart of it,” she says. “I’d rather be there and helping than sitting idle underneath a mountain of paperwork. Let’s go.”

Merrill, Anders, and Varric tag along as well, with the two of them having been at the Hanged Man when Gareth dropped in.

“You’re always helping people,” Merrill comments. “It’s very nice of you.”

Gareth blinks. There’s not really much to say to that.

When they arrive at the destination, best as Gareth can tell, it’s to find the templar Thrask there waiting for them.

“We’re helping a _templar_?” Anders hisses.

Gareth frowns, “We’ll hear what he has to say, at least. He’s a decent man, if a little misguided.”

Upon seeing them approach, Thrask’s shoulders droop in relief and he smiles in greeting. He inclines his head to Gareth, “Master Hawke. Feynriel speaks well of how you treated him before you brought him to us. I thought perhaps you would be willing to show mages a kindness once more.”

It’s enough to shut Anders up.

“Can I get the details before I agree?” Gareth asks.

“Certainly,” Thrask replies, nodding. He gestures towards the cave behind him, “There are a number of apostates hiding in these caverns.”

“And you’ve _allowed_ this?” Aveline’s shocked.

“I was hoping that you might speak to the group,” Thrask continues, ignoring Aveline’s outburst. “Convince them to surrender peacefully before my fellow templars arrive.”

“Where did these apostates come from?”

“Likely Starkhaven,” Anders says. “Am I correct?”

Thrask nods, “The Circle in Starkhaven burned to the ground. The templars there sent for us to help relocate the survivors. Unfortunately, with their phylacteries burned, they escaped on their journey and have been impossible to track.”

“And why should we help?” Anders crosses his arms.

Gareth intervenes, “What’s at stake here?”

“Ser Karras, a knight-lieutenant of the templars, hunts these apostates as well. He is a great crony of Meredith’s and, should he find apostates hiding, then Meredith will consider him justified in murdering the lot of them. I would rather avert a bloodbath, but these mages have proven to attack templars on sight. You have a greater chance of convincing them that they are better alive in a Circle than free and dead.”

“I would see unnecessary blood shed averted.”

“Thank you,” Thrask sighs. “Your compassion does you credit. I will wait here, and keep watch for Ser Karras; if he arrives before you have returned, I will stall him to the best of my ability.”

“Hopefully we’ll have returned before then.”

Parting ways with Thrask, the caverns are dank, dark, and smell strongly of mildew. They’re likely old smuggler’s tunnels, of which the Wounded Coast is riddled with. An excellent place to hide from unwanted pursuers, but a death trap if one isn’t able to navigate them properly.

“We aren’t going to turn them over to the Circle, are we?” Anders asks. “They’re already free and without their phylacteries, the templars have no means to track them.”

“What is a phylactery anyway?” Gareth asks.

Anders scowls, “They’re a sample of a mage’s blood, taken when they’re brought to the Circle. It’s how templars track those who run away. Mine was destroyed when Amaranthine was assaulted by darkspawn, as were many of those in the Fereldan Circle.”

“A permitted form of blood magic, then? How strange,” Merrill comments. “I thought blood magic was considered illegal by your Circles.”

“It’s – I never thought of it like that.”

“You said yourself that it involves blood. Some sort of enchantment, I suppose? It’s entirely possible to recreate it…” Merrill hums to herself. “I’ll have to think on it. It could be useful, though dangerous if it fell into the wrong hands.”

“Please tell me you’re not thinking of practicing blood magic,” Anders bemoans.

“Oh, I already have,” Merrill replies, rather chirpily. “Practiced blood magic, I mean. I’m very careful, though; you don’t need to worry about me.”

“But that’s…”

“Undead ahead,” Carver interrupts. “Merrill, with me.”

“Right.”

It’s not just undead that they must contend with.

A mage appears, and in a swirling whirl of crimson, calls up more skeletons and shades from the ground. The sleeves of his robe, just barely visible in the flickering light of the veilfire that Gareth summoned, are stained red with blood.

It’s a difficult fight, made worse by their lack of immunity to the mage’s spells.

Gareth does his best, focusing on the mage and launching spirit bolt after spirit bolt at the man until the mage stumbles back, stunned, and Aveline is able to close the distance with one charge of her shield.

“That was…”

“Blood magic,” Anders confirms, grimly.

“There’s only one way out for these mages now,” Aveline states.

“No one’s injured?” Gareth asks, letting loose a wave of revitalizing magics at the same moment that Anders does the same.

It feels different.

Anders’ magic feels like an infusion of _righteousness_. There’s a hard edge to it that Gareth doesn’t recall feeling from his; it’s less of a warm, comforting embrace and more of a strengthening of his convictions. It’s a fulfillment of rightness, that they are doing the right thing – that what they do is _just_.

He recalls Justice and wonders if anyone else notices how different their magic feels.

“Fascinating!”

Of course Merrill would.

“It feels very different, you know,” Merrill says. “Gareth’s magic makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Loved. Like I’m not alone. Yours feels very different. Maybe because your spirits are different? Probably.”

Anders shrugs, “Most likely. Shall we continue searching for these mages?”

Wandering deeper into the caverns, they mark their place with flickering wisps of veilfire that Gareth summons. Anders finds it to be very interesting.

“I’ve only read about veilfire before,” Anders says. “It’s supposed to be very rare and difficult to create. But you manage with such ease. How?”

“I’ve never been particularly good with the primal spells,” Gareth replies with a little shrug. “It’s always come naturally to me – the veilfire. It’s useful, in that it doesn’t require fuel to burn and gives off no heat.”

“And you can keep so many burning at once?”

“It doesn’t take much energy to get them to light and once they are, I can use the ambient magic in the air to keep them going indefinitely. Or until I will them otherwise.”

“Hmm. You shouldn’t have a problem, then, with learning glyphs. They operate in much the same manner. There’s a section in my grimoire that I leant you on them; study up. They’ll prove useful, I’m certain.”

There’s more blood mages and corpses awaiting them the further into the caverns that they press. And they are dealt with.

But the third wave brings with it a surprise.

A young man, clad in the traditional robes of a Circle mage rushes out from one of the many branching paths of the caverns. Despite that they’re surrounded by a smouldering mess of corpses and that Aveline and Carver are liberally smattered with blood, he looks absolutely relieved to see them.

“Maker’s blessing!” he says. “I thought I was going to die down here in this… this tomb! Are you with the templars? Please, I need to go back to the Circle. I never wanted to get involved in this. Not when he started summoning those… those things!”

Gareth blinks, “Who?”

“Decimus,” the mage responds. “It was his decision. He kept saying that the templars would label us all as blood mages if we fled – why not use it if it’s our best tool? He slit his wrist, and the magic… it rose from the blood and woke the skeletons in the cave. I ran. Decimus is wrong – blood magic is the work of evil, not just a power the templars keep from us out of spite!”

“The templar Thrask is waiting outside,” Gareth says, stepping aside and gesturing at the passage that they’ve just come through. “Surrender to him and you won’t be hurt.”

“Thank the Maker!” He pauses, then adds, “The rest of them, they’re still following Decimus. He’s gone mad. I think he’d kill us all just to take the templars down.”

Before he can question the terrified mage any further, he runs down the passage back towards the surface.

“I don’t like the sound of this… blood magic is what gives us mages a bad name.”

“Blood magic isn’t inherently evil,” Merrill says. “It’s a tool, much like any other form of magic.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“Using your own blood isn’t a bad thing. All you need to do is be careful and take proper precautions.”

“You’re… you’re _one_ of them?!”

“Is now really the time to be having this conversation?” Gareth asks.

“I… suppose not,” Anders admits. “But you keep company with a _blood mage_?”

“I trust that Merrill knows what she’s doing,” Gareth replies. “She’s made her own choices; I have no right to belittle her for them.”

Merrill smiles, soft and sweet, “Thank you, Hawke.”

“You’re welcome.”

Their chosen path leads them deeper and deeper into the tunnels, more corpses and blood mages waiting for them as they go. Eventually, they make their way into a large cavernous space that stretches up towards the sky; the ceiling has holes in it, through which sunlight filters down weakly in.

On the opposite side of the cavern is a small gathering of mages, all of them gathered around a tall, older man. Even from so far away, his aura feels foul and polluted, as though he’s dipped himself into something cruel and dark.

If he’s a blood mage, he feels nothing like Merrill.

“They’re here!” the man shouts, twirling his staff. “The templars have come to take us back to the Circle!”

“Wait!” One of the mages, a woman, grabs his arm as though to stop him, “Stay your hand, Decimus! These are no templars!”

He shrugs her off, blood already swirling through the air around him, “What do I care what shield they carry? If they challenge us, the dead themselves will meet the call!”

“Decimus, please!”

But it’s clear that he’s lost himself, that nothing she says will reach him now. Already, the dead begin to claw themselves from their graves in the dirt beneath their feet.

“Be prepared,” Gareth warns. “They’re coming!”

Carver and Aveline take up position ahead of them, Varric retreating to the rear of the group with Anders, with Merrill and Gareth in the middle to provide back-up support for the frontline fighters.

It’s a brutal fight, made worse by how Decimus is a powerful blood mage in his own right. He turns blood against them and Gareth can feel the claws of him attempting to seize control of his body – he fights it off, struggling to focus on keeping Aveline and Carver shielded as best he’s able. Beside him, Merrill shrugs off the effects, throwing out her own powerful spells to match.

Around Merrill, however, is a swirl of green and red. He recognizes the blood, turns his focus to keeping Merrill on her feet. She smiles at him, and nods, before unleashing another powerful spell upon their opponent – knocking him back and sending the gathered mages fleeing for the safety of the crumbling structures at the edges of the battlefield.

It’s Carver who lands the killing blow, his greatsword nearly cleaving Decimus in two.

The remaining dead waver where they stand before crumbling to the ground, their bodies turning once more to piles of dusty bones.

“You… you killed him!”

The woman from earlier is the first one to approach them, jogging towards them. Her face is twisted, torn between confused relief and deep-seated anger. She turns her fiery eyes on Gareth, “I saw what you are! How could you murder one of your own just for denying the templars?!”

“Need I point out, he attacked. We responded,” Anders says dryly.

“Hawke is nothing like him,” Merrill adds. “I mean, he may be a mage, but he would never hurt anyone.”

“He clearly wasn’t willing to listen to reason,” Gareth says. “There wasn’t anything more I could have done but answer him in turn. What of you?”

“She won’t admit it,” Aveline interjects. “But she’s just as corrupted.”

“I swear to you, I have had no truck with demons,” the woman replies. “Please… we only want our freedom. Decimus… he only did what he had to do, he said it was all he could do to protect us – protect _me_. But the templars… they’ll execute us all for his crimes.”

Gareth sighs, glances at his companions, “I won’t turn you over to the templars.”

“Really?”

“I came here to prevent a bloodbath,” Gareth replies. “Not to turn my fellow mages over to the whims of the templars. What do you plan to do?”

“Will you buy us time to flee Kirkwall? The templar who followed us – if you kill him–”

“These are blood mages,” Carver interjects. “Not like you or… Bethany. And what do you think will happen if we begin to just kill templars?”

“I won’t kill him,” Gareth replies. “But you have my word, I will buy you the time to flee Kirkwall. By the time we’re done, these templars will swear that the sky is green. Right, Varric?”

Varric grins, rubbing his hands together, “Leave it to me. Spinning outrageous stories is, after all, what I do.”

“Your confidence almost makes me believe you,” the woman says. “But I spent two weeks traveling with these templars. They strike first and think after. They are far easier to kill than fool.”

“Oh, come now. I’m only confident because I know I’m that good. C’mon, Hawke, we have a report to make.”

The journey back to the surface and Thrask is much quicker and smoother than the journey in. They’re able to retrace their steps by the veilfire waymarkers that Gareth left, which he disperses as they come to them.

“Do you think, perhaps, that you could teach me to summon veilfire?” Anders asks. “It seems like a useful skill for a mage to have.”

“Oh! Do you want to join us for magical lessons?” Merrill practically squees. “It’ll be fun! And nice to have another mage around! Hawke’s been doing very well with what I’ve taught him, but I have to admit that he excels at magics that I’m not as well-versed in.”

“Merrill’s been an excellent teacher,” Gareth replies. “She’s taught me quite a bit.”

“I’d… love to,” Anders replies. “But she’s not…?”

“Maker no!”

“That was my choice,” Merrill says firmly. “I would not force it on Hawke. Besides, he’s plenty strong as it is. He’s simply talented in the more arcane schools of magic, which is quite rare. I’ve not met a mage like him before – much less more than two spirit healers! We’re very lucky to have you both.”

“I knew others,” Anders says. “One is a Grey Warden in Amaranthine. The other a senior enchanter in the Fereldan Circle. Both of them traveled with Miri. I haven’t… seen them since I left.”

“Do you miss Ferelden, then?”

“I miss my friends and I miss the Wardens,” Anders replies, quietly. “But I can’t go back. Not after, well… Justice and I. It’s difficult to understand and I wouldn’t want to burden them with hiding an abomination.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Should I not have brought it up?”

Anders shakes his head, “It’s fine.”

“We’re getting close, you might wanna stop the mage talk,” Varric advises, shifting Bianca onto his shoulder. He cracks his knuckles, “Well, time to spin our story, huh?”

Thrask is not alone when they emerge from the tunnels back into the bright, blinding light of the late afternoon sun.

“Are you trying to tell me that _this boy_ is all that’s left of the apostates?!”

“I ran away when they began to use blood magic, ser!”

“They are not in the caverns, Ser Karras. I have thoroughly explored–”

“ _Who_ is this?” Karras demands, turning to Gareth and his group.

Varric steps forward, “What’s the trouble, Ser Thrask? Did the knight-commander forget to tell Ser Karras that Enchanter Hawke came from Ferelden to root out rebel mages?”

“Uh, yes. Yes,” Thrask stutters. “I was just about to tell him.”

“We completed our investigation of the mages in the caverns. There is no one left inside.”

Gareth picks up the thread, “The apostates turned to blood magic and turned on one another.”

“Their leader fled the battlefield ahead of us. Bloody coward left his own people to die. I caught only a glimpse, but it looked like the passages led out to the coast. I would send your men that way.”

Thrask turns to Karras, “We can still catch up if we go around the caverns. That’s the faster route.”

“The coast, you say? Men, fan out, search the shore! We will retrieve these corpses later.” Karras glances at Gareth, disdain in his eyes and Gareth briefly wonders if Varric’s lie will hold, “I will commend you to the knight-commander, Enchanter Hawke. It is _rare_ to see a mage cooperate with authorities.”

Before he leaves with Karras and the other templars, Thrask turns to him with a relieved smile, “Thank you, my friend.”

It’s a long and tiring wait for the templars to leave, before the mages begin to emerge from the tunnels. Before she leaves, the woman pauses to speak with them.

“I apologize for doubting you. Truly you could charm a miser out of his last coin,” she says. “I didn’t think that any of us would leave those caverns alive.”

“It won’t be an easy path,” Gareth warns. “Trying to live free as a mage.”

“But it will be _my_ path,” she replies. Her smile is, for once, warm. “Now, we must flee as far as we can before nightfall. Thank you, friend.”

 

 

 

Aveline is the one to bring it to his attention.

“Have you seen these? They’ve been plastered all over the city overnight.”

Gareth takes the posting from her.

‘ _Offered on the authority of His Excellency, Viscount Marlowe Dumar: Citizens of able nature, Viscount Dumar requires your aid. His son, Saemus Dumar, has been lost to uncertain company, and a safe return is sought with all haste. Make your case of skill to Seneschal Bran at his station in His Excellency’s Keep, and the reward for this act shall be generous in both sentiment and coin._ ’

“The viscount’s son is missing?”

“It should be right up your alley,” Aveline says, leaning against the wall. “Aren’t you always dashing to the rescue of everyone who needs it?”

“You make me sound like one of those dashing princes or knights in those old tales,” Gareth replies, dryly.

“In a way, you are. So, what do you say? Shall we go and rescue the viscount’s boy?”

He thinks about the coin that they still need to raise for the expedition and nods, “I was planning to stop by the clinic today, so I’ll tell Anders. Do you mind getting the others? I’ll see if Fenris is at home on my way to the Keep.”

“We’ll meet at the Keep’s doors then?”

“Yes.”

 

 

 

For once, the clinic is empty.

“No new patients today?” Gareth asks.

Anders looks up, shuffles the papers in front of him and tucks them away under the mattress of his thin cot. “Not today, it seems. I saw a few of the regulars earlier, but that’s been all. Was there something that you needed?”

He holds up the posting, “How do you feel about coming along to rescue the viscount’s son?”

“If you need me, of course I’ll come,” Anders says. “Will the others be joining us?”

“Aveline’s gone to gather those in Lowtown. I’m stopping in on Fenris on the way to the Keep, where we’re meeting.” Gareth pauses, then says, “Right, you… haven’t met Fenris yet.”

“No, but I’ve heard the others speak of him. Your brother says you’re… quite taken with him.”

Gareth flushes, “Carver exaggerates.”

“We’ll see.”

 

 

 

“Hawke, what brings you here?”

There’s a fresh assortment of bottles on the table, some empty and some unopened. But Fenris is clear-eyed when he looks at Gareth, gaze flickering to Anders than back again.

“And you brought a friend. Another mage, I assume?”

“Anders, Fenris. Fenris, Anders,” Gareth introduces. “I don’t expect either of you to be friends, but I was hoping that you would be willing to help us in rescuing the viscount’s son, Fenris.”

“My blade is yours, Hawke, as always.”

Gareth smiles, “Thank you, Fenris.”

 

 

 

He’s never been more grateful to see Aveline in his entire life.

The short trip from the manor to the Keep has been filled with nothing but Anders and Fenris _bickering_ like two small children. And it’s begun to fray his patience already; he’s not entirely sure that he can last through an entire day with the both of them.

He makes a mental note to avoid bringing them with him together if this is how they’re going to behave.

“Will you two _please_ behave?” Gareth asks. “Please, for me if nothing else.”

Anders blinks, then scowls and crosses his arms, “Very well.”

Fenris, at least, looks chastised and averts his eyes, “If you wish.”

“Thank you,” Gareth says, sighing.

Running his hands through his hair, he glances at Aveline and nods, before everyone follows him up into the Keep.

Of course, they wouldn’t have been the only ones who saw the notices posted all over the city. Not even Aveline, with all her resources as guard-captain-to-be got her hands on it before the opportunistic mercenaries did. It’s an unfortunate reality of living in such a large city, Gareth supposes.

It means that they have competition.

“Insist if you must, but Viscount Dumar will see no one! If you’ve news of Saemus, I will relay it to him,” the seneschal explains, clearly exasperated, to the heavily armed woman in front of him.

“Fine,” she snaps. “Tell the viscount that my scouts have tracked the boy and his Qunari captor to the Wounded Coast. I’m taking a full company after them, and when I return, I expect him to make a show of the reward.”

“So many to deal with one Qunari seems… excessive.”

“He may be _Tal-Vashoth_ ,” she spits out the word like it’s bile on her tongue. “The Winters leave nothing to chance.”

She spins sharply on her heel, shoving Gareth out of her way and nearly sending him crashing into Fenris beside him, “Get out of my bloody way!”

Seneschal Bran turns to them, his face lined and he sighs when he sees them, “Yes, what is it?”

“Looks like I wasn’t the only one who saw the bounty posting,” Gareth replies, steadying himself. “Sorry, Fenris.”

“It’s… alright. Do not worry yourself over it, Hawke.”

He smiles at Fenris, then looks back to the seneschal.

“Apparently so, and I am regretting it,” Bran replies, pinching the bridge of his nose. “As I told the others, Viscount Dumar’s son, Saemus, is missing. We suspect he was taken by a Qunari. If you would like to try your hand at securing his safe return, feel free. I have certainly granted no exclusivity to the Winters and their… violent approach.”

“The boy will be home soon enough,” Gareth says.

“Declare it all you like, but the reward goes to whomever brings him back safe. A discussion you are _welcome_ to have with the Winters, should you encounter them. On the Wounded Coast.”

It’s a pointed enough tip that they should be on their way and Gareth takes it. Their group filters out into the courtyard outside of the Keep. Before they leave the city, they make themselves ready for an overnight trip out to the Wounded Coast and back again, carefully making sure to have enough provisions for one more person – making certain that Saemus will be fed is high on their list of priorities.

“Are you certain you want to make enemies of these Winters?” Fenris asks.

“They’re brutal,” Aveline replies. “And well known for their less than legal activities. Eliminating them would be good for Kirkwall – more than one band of bounty hunters has mysteriously vanished when in competition with the Winters.”

“Dully noted,” Fenris says.

“It’s the right thing to do,” Gareth says. “Bring the boy back safely to his father. And, well, if we’re to be partners in this expedition, then we do need the coin. Rather desperately, I might add. Our time is beginning to run short.”

“Have you given any thought on who you will bring on this expedition?” Anders asks.

“Listen, I know I said that I’d help out with anything, but I’m none too fond of small spaces,” Isabela says. “What?”

“You? Not fond of tight spaces? Colour me surprised,” Aveline mutters.

“I’ve never been to the Deep Roads before. Isn’t that where the darkspawn come from? I don’t know if I’d want to go exploring down there…”

Gareth hums to himself, “I suppose if anyone wants to volunteer, then they’re free to. Carver is the only one coming with me for certain. And Varric, of course, but he’s already part of the expedition.”

“That I am,” Varric replies. “Can’t let my idiot brother go anywhere without me.”

“Yes, who knows what trouble they might get into without us,” Carver adds.

“Ha! You do have a sense of humour buried under all that after all!”

They’re outside of the city limits when Fenris gently lays a hand on Gareth’s forearm.

“Yes? What is it, Fenris?”

“I would like to volunteer,” he says, softly. “You helped me, without expecting anything in return. Let me return the favour.”

Gareth smiles, hesitantly lays his hand on top of Fenris’ and squeezes it before letting go, “Of course. You’re more than welcome to come with us, Fenris.”

 

 

 

It’s surprisingly easy to locate Saemus and the Winters along the Coast.

Mostly because they’re the only people around for miles. Alongside the dead Qunari that lies in between them.

“And the world’s rid of one more Qunari,” she says, venom dripping from her tongue. “Easier than I expected… call the men back! We’ve got an appointment with the viscount. Isn’t that right, Saemus?”

“Ashaad,” Saemus says, so quiet that Gareth almost misses it as they approach. He kneels over the body, hand pressed against the Qunari’s chest. “You killed him! You… you vashedan bitch!”

Sheathing her weapons, she grabs Saemus by the chin roughly, “That one of their words? See, that’s why you need to be dragged home. You’re playing too nice with those _things_.” Her voice drops, “I bet you’ve gone even further than that. Haven’t you, brat?”

Saemus jerks his chin from her grip and falls backwards, then proceeds to scramble away from the woman as fast as he can. He bumps into Gareth shins, and peers up, eyes wide.

Gareth steps around the terrified boy, putting himself between him and the woman, “Sounds like he doesn’t want to go with you.”

“Competition?” She scoffs. “Well, you’re too late. The Winters… I have already claimed him.

“Serah!” Saemus grabs onto the back of Gareth’s coat, voice edged with pleading. “If I must go back, so be it. But I will not see these... _murderers_ rewarded.”

She withdraws both of her short daggers, “Spoiled shit! I’ll cut out your tongue and charge extra for bringing you back quiet!” She points one of the daggers at Gareth’s chest, “And as for you… I could do with some entertainment while we wait for the others.”

If she was expecting a quick and easy fight, she’s in for a surprise.

Gareth’s group outnumbers her and what few men she has with her, and they deal with them easily.

Aveline and Carver easily dispatch their opponents, while Isabela busies herself with taking apart what traps there are. Merrill practically decapitates another with one of her stone fists and Fenris, well, he takes advantage of the distraction Gareth provides and tears out the woman’s heart.

With the excitement of battle coursing through his veins, Gareth rolls onto the balls of his feet and bounces a little.

Saemus crawls out from his hiding places between an outcropping of rock, “Dead and good riddance. But… she said she was waiting for more. A _lot_ more.”

“Well,” Carver growls. “Let them come.”

Gareth nods, “Strip the camp and we’ll ready a fitting welcome.”

They turn the traps against the men, setting them along the three forks of the path that lead to the small camp. Aveline takes the centre, Carver the left, and Fenris the right; backing Aveline is Merrill, while Isabela backs Carver, leaving Gareth to cover Fenris. Both Varric and Anders are in the rear, guarding Saemus and providing a certain amount of covering fire.

Literally, in Anders’ case.

The fight is messy and takes place in relatively cramped quarters. Fenris and him end up fighting back to back for much of it, finding a synergy together that works. Gareth twists around him, firing off a spirit bolt when he can, and sending men flying backwards whenever one too many of them get too close.

And Fenris’ blade practically sings with blood as he wields it as though it’s lighter than air. He cuts through flesh and armor as though it’s nothing, face the same stoic expression that it always is.

He can’t help but admire the elegance in the way that Fenris fights. His markings flare blue every now and again, letting him phase through people or allowing a blade to phase through him. He twists away from blows, takes one that would fell a lesser man, but Gareth is there to seal it closed before it can do much but register.

There always feels like a strange distortion of time when he fights, like everything is happening much slower than it actually is. The fights always last longer, it seems, when he’s fighting them than when he looks back. And this one is no different.

In the aftermath, the ground is littered with corpses. The sandy ground soaking the blood up greedily and turning to mud beneath their feet. It sucks at their boots, trying to pull them down and under to join those who have fallen.

Gareth’s breathing heavily, but unharmed. Any wounds he might have incurred already closed thanks to his or Anders’ magic.

“You alright, Saemus?” Gareth calls.

Saemus comes out from his hiding spot, and nods. He walks over to the dead Qunari, eyes cast downward and kneels at his side, closing the Qunari’s eyes.

“Ashaad never lied, never coddled. You worth his time or you were not,” he says, quietly. He turns up to Gareth, “They are not the brutes others claim they are. Take me to my father,” he climbs to his feet, “and I will try again to make him see.”

Gareth nods, “Then let us return to the Keep.”

 

 

 

It isn’t a difficult journey to make, returning to Kirkwall, though they do have to camp out along the coast for a night before returning.

Saemus makes no complaint about the roughness of it nor of the meagerness of their provisions. Rather, he’s quiet and withdrawn, seemingly lost to his own thoughts when he curls up with Gareth’s bedroll for the night and drifts to sleep shortly thereafter.

Returning to Kirkwall, they make straight for the Keep.

Gareth is the only one, however, who accompanies Saemus into the viscount’s office.

“Father,” Saemus greets.

Marlowe Dumar is an older gentleman, his hair already having receded too far to be politely called a hairline any longer. The top of his head gleams in the sun that streams in through the leaded glass windows. But his face relaxes into a warm, genuine smile when he sees his son, whom he proceeds to embrace tightly.

“My son,” he says, voice choked. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Saemus steps away, breaking the embrace, “Enough, father.”

Seneschal Bran clears his throat, gestures to Gareth, “Ahem, allow me to present one Serah Hawke, Excellency. He fulfilled the bounty.”

“You have my gratitude,” Dumar says, clasping Gareth’s hand. His grip is weak, though his hands are quite warm – even through the gloves he wears and they tremble slightly. “I hope you encountered no great difficulties on my son’s behalf.”

“There were… complications,” Gareth says. “But I was privileged to keep your son from harm.”

“I was told that the Winters had involved themselves. Was there no way to avoid an incident?”

Saemus snarls, “They murdered my friend! Where is the concern for _that_?”

“It was my understanding that you were captured alone, foolishly traipsing the coast as you do.”

“I was not _captured_. I was with Ashaad. The Qunari. They are not monsters to be feared. If you would just _try_ to understand, others would see as well.”

The viscount pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, “Better that you were thought abducted than to have their influence suspected in my own family… benign or not, it’s too much.”

Awkwardly, Gareth shifts from one foot to another, then clears his throat, “Forgive me, but this is a private concern of yours.”

“Your actions are appreciated, serah,” the viscount says. “The seneschal will see you out.”

Gareth follows Bran out, the viscount’s tired voice following behind him.


	8. one dealt with grief by causing pain

Fenris accompanies them back to Lowtown, and it takes all of Gareth’s willpower to keep his heart from leaping up into his throat. He’s only partially successful, because it flutters hard and heavy against the swell of his breastbone instead.

He takes a single, shaky breath to steady himself. The last thing he needs to do is make a fool out of himself.

Luckily for him, he’s saved from having to make small talk.

They’re coming down the stairs from the bazaar when he spots the woman in Chantry robes.

From the looks of it, she’s alone, and peering about around her as though she’s looking for someone. Or something. But at this time of night in Lowtown, all she’s likely to find is trouble of the deadly variety.

“Will no one show their good will?” she calls out. “I can pay good coin to the kind-hearted.”

Gareth pinches the bridge of his nose. Clearly, the woman has no idea what she’s getting herself into. The last thing to do in Lowtown is advertise that one has coin and, perhaps, a lot of it. Chantry robes or no, it’s a good way to find oneself dead in the ditch of a slit throat and robbed of all of one’s worldly possession – be they of worth or not.

Unsurprisingly, she’s approached by one of the many scoundrels that call the Lowtown night home.

“Here, miss,” he says. “Word is, you’re looking for help and paying well.”

“I need someone native to the dark places beneath Lowtown. If you claim as much, yes, I will pay.”

“I am, I am,” he waves his hand dismissively. “Let’s just step into this alley and me and my fellows can have a look at the money on offer.”

Beside him, Varric sighs, “Another sad Lowtown tale in the making. As if we needed another.”

“It does appear she could use some help,” Gareth says, already starting towards the alley. “Especially now.”

“Must we always involve ourselves in the business of others?” Fenris asks. Yet, despite that, he still follows behind Gareth as they make their way down the winding, Lowtown alley.

“Someone’s in danger,” Gareth replies. “Don’t we have a duty to help them?”

Fenris grunts.

Carver, beside him, peels his hand from his face, “You get used to him after a time, Fenris.”

“So I see.”

The fight is, to put it bluntly, short and brutal. With Fenris and Carver taking the brunt of the fight, it’s over quickly. Gareth hardly needs to resort to his magic at all, though he pauses to surreptitiously heal a gash across Fenris’ nose. The blood, however, remains, and he has to resist the urge to wipe it away with his thumb.

Instead, the blood remains smeared across Fenris’ face, like some twin to the birthmark that slashes across Gareth’s own.

All that remains is the Chantry sister.

Her smile is sharp, like a dagger, when she turns to him, “Well, thank you for your timely intervention. I am… out of my element.”

There’s something about her features that… makes Gareth uncomfortable, that sets his instincts ablaze. Her cheekbones are too sharp, her mouth too thin, and her eyes are hawkishly narrowed above a nose that’s too thin for her face.

Perhaps it’s cruel of him, but he doesn’t trust her.

“A foolish risk in Lowtown,” he chides, softly.

She continues, undaunted, “I had to come here to get the kind of person I need. Someone of bloody skill, but also integrity. Perhaps the kind who might leap to someone’s defense. I have a charge who needs passage from the city,” she presses a folded piece of paper into Gareth’s hand, “If you are willing and capable, meet me at my safe house nearby.”

“You make _a lot_ of assumptions,” Gareth says, crumpling the note in hand. “It almost got you killed already.”

“All the more reason to end this quickly. You must need coin. Everyone here does.” There’s clear disdain in her icy eyes, “Varnell!”

From the mouth of the alley and the shadows, steps a templar.

“A bloody templar,” Carver mutters. “Just what we need.”

“I hope you will come,” she says. “This matter only grows more urgent with time.”

And, with that, she vanishes into the depths of Lowtown with her templar escort.

“Not so helpless after all,” Gareth says.

“One templar would hardly be of use against so many,” Fenris says, nudging the body of one of the men with his foot. “No matter how skilled.”

“Best to leave it,” Carver says. “The last thing we want is to come to the attention of the Chantry.”

Gareth unfolds the parchment, which is a crudely drawn map to a location in the Old City’s slums, not far from Gamlen’s small apartment.

_My charge_ , the woman had said.

“We should at least hear her out. A Chantry sister wouldn’t venture into Lowtown unless she was desperate,” Gareth replies. “Come on, it’s not far from here.”

“Seriously?” Varric says. “That woman has ‘untrustworthy’ written all over her. And you’re saying we should go see what she needs _anyway_?”

“Worth hearing her out.”

“I can see there’s no arguing with you. C’mon along, boys, we better make sure that Hawke doesn’t land himself in another pot of trouble. Again.”

“I do not–”

“You do,” Fenris states, lips quirking up in a small smile.

Gareth finds that there’s no arguing with that.

The safehouse is a plain apartment on the ground floor of one of the many blocks that make up the old city slums. He’s surprised to find that the door’s unlocked, a rarity in Lowtown given the dangers that lurk behind every corner.

Gareth pushes the door open and proceeds into the safehouse. Where he’s immediately confronted by Varnell, who has his sword drawn and pointed straight at his chest.

“I’m expected.”

At a nod from the Chantry sister, Varnell lowers his sword and steps back.

“I thank you for coming,” she says, with that same too thin smile on her face. “This matter is delicate and I need someone of… _limited_ notoriety who will not link this to me. It is an escort, but I think you will agree the nature of the party makes this… unique.”

“If this is criminal, I already have enough trouble,” Gareth says.

“I should think you’re about to have more,” she snaps. “I am Sister Petrice. _This_ is my burden of charity.”

What steps forward is a beast of a man. A good two or three heads taller than Gareth, with thickly corded arms and deep grey skin that’s marred with scars. Around its neck is a massive collar and scarf, down from which hang broken chains. It stares at them from behind a mask, its mouth sewn firmly shut – though the strings are thickly stained with blood.

Though its horns have been shattered and broken off, Gareth immediately recognizes Petrice’s burden for what it is.

A Qunari.

“A saarebas? Here?” Fenris asks.

Gareth blinks, glances at him, eyebrows going up in silent question.

“A Qunari mage,” Fenris says, in explanation.

Petrice nods, “Would even a templar bind a mage like this?”

The mage stands, silent and unmoving beside her. He gives no indication that he’s even aware of their presence.

“A survivor of infighting with their Tal-Vashoth outcasts,” she says, stepping in front of the mage. “I call him ‘Ketojan’, a bridge between worlds. The viscount, and others,” Petrice turns back to face them, “feel that peace begins with appeasement. This mage would likely be returned to his brutal kin. He can serve a better purpose. I want him free. He must be guided from the city without alerting his people, or being seen in my care.”

Gareth frowns, “I have dealings with the Qunari leader. He’d want to know of this.”

“You… have dealt with their leader?” Petrice shakes her head slightly. “Then you know what they would do. The Arishok would doom this poor creature. I am asking he be freed, rather than returned to the brutality of his comrades. Will you do this?”

She had to hit upon his weak point.

“I can get him out of Kirkwall,” Gareth says. “But he’s rather conspicuous for the streets.”

“Better out there than here with the templar,” Carver mutters under his breath.

“That is obviously not an option,” Petrice says, snappishly. All that’s missing is the stomp of a foot. “You must avoid incident with the guards – I cannot be linked to this. This mage will be a fine example of how cruel Qunari are, even to their own. But only if this plays out just so.”

There’s something dark and glittering in Petrice’s eyes as she points to a trap door set into the floor at the rear of the house.

“The passage here leads to the warrens of the Undercity. It is dangerous, but that is why you were hired. Good luck.”

The passage is narrow, long, and winding. It’s also quite cramped for someone of Gareth’s size, meaning that both Ketojan and Carver have to crouch down – nearly resorting to crawling – in order to fit. They must go single file, Fenris in the front, with Gareth following behind and Carver bringing up the rear behind Ketojan and Varric.

Thus, it’s a relief when they emerge into the wider, sprawling tunnels that make up the Undercity of Kirkwall.

Of course, that comes with dangers of its own.

They approach with swagger in their step and hands casually resting on the hilts of their weapons. Two archers in the rear stroke their bows, eyeing each of them with a wary eye.

“Look at this. Undercity’s feared by all, but there’s no shortage of fools with coin who want to test it.” Their leader grins, hands on his hips, as he swaggers up to them. He pauses when he spots Ketojan, “What is this thing, collared like a dog-lord’s bitch?”

His eyes slide to Gareth, at Ketojan’s side, “You some sort of Qunari lover? Maybe I should get rid of you and see who’ll pay the most for your pet.”

Ketojan growls and shifts his weight on his feet.

“Uhhh,” another man says. “I don’t think it likes you threatening its master. Maybe we let this one pass.”

“Do everyone a favour and _listen_ to your friend,” Gareth states, stepping around Ketojan.

The man who is clearly in charge scoffs, drawing his dagger, “And let you lot make a holiday of the last free place in Kirkwall? Tax it up like even Lowtown? I’ll cut you up and save the biggest piece for your pet!”

It happens fast. Gareth only has time to take note of the swell of magic that wells up beside him before it’s unleashed in a powerful, explosive wave.

It smashes the man in front to the ground, his neck shattering with a loud crack, while the rest are blown straight over.

One of them stumbles to his feet and screams, “Kill them! Kill them all!”

Gareth sighs. He was rather hoping to avoid a fight.

Luckily, however, the fight is short. Though they’re well-equipped, they’re poorly trained with even less experience. They’re little more than thugs, intimidating anyone who passes through their loosely defined territory.

Ketojan, however, still stands within a mass of pulsing magical energy that roars to life as flames.

“The danger has passed, Ketojan!” Gareth steps toward him, hands up and stave safely sheathed at his back once more. “Calm yourself!”

Looking to him, Ketojan’s breath pants hot and heavy from behind the bindings of his mouth. He stares at Gareth from behind that strange mask, impassively and impossible to read. Grunting, the flames about him gradually fade and diminish.

Gareth runs a hand through his hair, breathes out through his nose, “Keep control, and remember who is on your side.”

The only response he receives is a deep-throated growl.

He sighs. “Of course. I expected no different.”

 

 

 

It’s otherwise an unremarkable journey through the Undercity through to a pass in the foothills of the Vimmark Mountains. When they exit the passage, it’s to find the weak, gray light of dawn already cresting over the horizon and painting everything in shades of pale pastels.

But, when they emerge, it’s to discover that they aren’t as alone as they should be.

Waiting for them within the mountain pass is a small contingent of Qunari warriors.

_Shit_.

Gareth knows a disaster when he sees one, and that this can only end poorly. Especially when he spies the pile of Qunari corpses a distance behind the warriors.

Beside him, Fenris shifts, laying a hand on the hilt of his great sword, “We should be wary. Be careful, Hawke.”

Gareth nods.

“You will hold, basra vashedan,” the leader states. He’s tall, like all Qunari, his chest and arms painted with a bright, reddish paint that Gareth can only assumes reveals something about his rank – as all the others wear different or the same ones.

The leader continues, “I am Arvaarad, and I claim possession of Saarebas at your heel. The members of his karataam were killed by Tal-Vashoth, but their disposal leads only here, to Saarebas and to you.”

“I just got here, coming from the other direction,” Gareth replies. “If there was a trail, I didn’t leave it.”

“Yet, you are here with Saarebas. The crime is his freedom, his leash held by unknowing basra. We will not allow that danger to continue. Let your own mages doom you – Saarebas will be properly confined.”

Irritation prickles along his skin and his hands tingle, “And if he doesn’t want to go back?”

If Arvaarad could smile, Gareth would bet he’d be beaming.

“Saarebas! Show that your will remains bound to the Qun!”

With a growl, Ketojan kneels before the Qunari commander.

“He has only followed you because he _wants_ to be led. He is allowed no other purpose.”

Gareth’s hands tighten at his sides, he grits his teeth and takes a deep breath. “He is bound and abused and you want him caged. Why?”

“The power that he has, that all Saarebas have, draws from chaos and demons. They can never be in control.”

“So you fear them.”

Fenris’ presence blazes at his side, bright and hot like his markings. It’s a warning, but Gareth can’t hear over the roaring of blood in his ears. He remembers the fear of people finding out he has magic, that had driven him towards always keeping it hidden; never allowing him to help, even when he could.

His heart constricts painfully in his chest. There’s no place for those like him, not in this world.

“We leash Saarebas because they are dangerous and contagious. Not even your templars fully grasp that threat.”

_What threat?_

“I wield that same power,” Gareth says, meeting the Qunari’s eyes. “And I’m no danger to you unless I _choose_ to be.”

The atmosphere changes immediately.

“You… are Saarebas? Bas Saarebas?”

There’s real fear in his voice, which trembles as he speaks. He’s terrified of Gareth, even though he’s raised not a finger against him. Rather, he turns to the Qunari behind him, shouting, “Vashedan! Nehran sataa karasaam!”

He draws his blade, points it at Gareth’s chest, “You spewed your words at me like a _demon_ trying to poison my control! Like this mage, the Qun requires your death!”

“But we’re no threat to each other,” Gareth says, taking a step back.

It comes at the same moment as both Fenris and Carver take a step forward. Both of them draw their greatswords, placing themselves firmly between the Qunari and Gareth; a protective wall of flesh and steel.

“Bas Saarebas!” Arvaarad shouts. “You will be no threat to anyone!”

Ketojan does not move as the battle rages around him. Gareth finds himself in the midst of battle, his stave leaving ribbons of blood flowing through the air as he spins it around him, from one Qunari to the next. His muscles burn with exertion, which he ignores, instead focusing on the next target, the next move.

He keeps the others within his awareness, keenly aware of the rush of magic that flows through him to do so. He feels each cut, each wound, as it happens, sealing it back up with a pulse of magic and little more than a twist of his fingers. Infusing them with fresh energy, draining his own, but it doesn’t matter because they need it more than he; he can keep them fighting longer, harder.

They’ll wear them down eventually. Maybe… maybe then they’ll see reason.

That time never comes.

Instead, the fight gradually peters out as more Qunari fall, staining the sandy ground beneath their feet bright crimson. It sucks at their boots and Fenris’ bare feet, trying to pull them down. But none of them fall.

It comes to an end with the last Qunari felled by Carver’s blade.

Fenris re sheathes his blade, “You should not have told him you are a mage.”

“I realize that now,” Gareth replies. He flicks the blood from his stave, stares at the bloodied sand beneath his feet and feels strangely hollow. “There’s no place for us, is there?”

“Your place is here, with us,” Varric says plainly. “And our business with this mage isn’t over yet. This whole thing reeks of a set-up.”

Turning from his companions, Gareth addresses Ketojan, who has fallen to his knees, “Can you stand?”

Slowly, the Qunari mage climbs back to his feet. His movement is stiff, as though his strings have but recently been cut, and he gets up jerkily. Then, he turns to face Gareth, with that same inscrutable look that he has had since they first met.

He grunts, “I am… unbound. Odd… wrong… but you deserve honor.” His voice is rough, as though he is not used to speaking. It sounds like gravel in his throat. “Your are now Basvaarad, worthy of following. I thank your intent, even if it was… wrong. I know the will of Arvaarad. I must return as demanded. It is the wisdom… of the Qun.”

“So, after all of this, now you want to die?”

“I do not want to die,” Ketojan replies. “I want to live by the Qun.”

“Which means dying.”

“Yes. Is that hard to grasp?”

“I… I don’t understand.”

“Certainty is comfort. That is the way of Qunari. The way of the Qun.”

To that, Gareth has no response. He can’t make the decision for Ketojan, because to live free is to make their own choices. And, clearly, Ketojan has made his. But it raises dark questions about his own existence.

Is death the only freedom promised to them?

With a whoosh of flame, Ketojan lights himself on fire.

Gareth swears, stepping back and away from the sudden and overwhelming heat.

“What’s wrong with these things?” Carver mutters.”

Watching as Ketojan’s body crumbles to the ground, consumed by the flames summoned by him.

And he remembers what brought them to this moment. Petrice.

“She may not have known of this,” Gareth says. “But clearly Petrice set a trail right to us.”

“We did what she wanted. Why give us away?”

“T-r-a-p. She needed someone gullible enough to act as her patsy,” Varric says. “What? It didn’t matter to her who she got; just so long as they got themselves killed. Unfortunately, she picked us.”

Fenris scowls, “You continue to put yourself in danger like this, Hawke, and one day you may not be so lucky as to escape it.”

“Trouble seems to find me – no matter what I do.”

“Be that as it may, you should still avoid taking unnecessary risks.”

He casts a glance at the smouldering corpse of Ketojan, “Maybe so, but it was the right thing to do.”

“Hawke, sometimes I’ve got difficulties accepting that you’re a real person.”

 

 

 

Unsurprisingly, Petrice is in the exact same safe house that they found her in. Only this time, it’s in a state of considerable more disarray.

“Leave nothing,” Petrice instructs Varnell. “It must be clean with no ties. It… Well.” She turns and spots them, and cannot hide the shock on her face fast enough. “My helpful associates from the streets. You... took the Qunari from the city? Without incident?”

“I think the ‘incident’ was rather your idea,” Varric remarks.

“Mind your tongue, _dwarf_.”

Petrice holds up a hand, “Please. Do speak your mind.”

He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from scowling, “The bodies of the mage’s karataam led right to us. Why?”

“You come back speaking _their_ language and think to lecture _me_?” She spits the words out, venom dripping from every one. “ _If_ such a plot existed, if the Qunari had murdered you for trying to help their slave mage, then yes, someone might have found that useful. It would have cast doubt on appeasement. Perhaps your death would have been a _tragic_ necessity. Perhaps finding the mage was a rushed opportunity. But all we have now are dead Qunari and the word of a sympathizer.”

He’s tired, sore, and all he wants is to climb into his bed and sleep the rest of the day away. Not to get involved in some woman’s private little holy war with the Qunari.

“I want no part of your little war,” he says harshly. “Pay me what I’m due.”

Her mouth twists into a foul expression, making her sharp features all the harsher, “Take your coin.” She throws a pouch of coin at him, that Gareth catches with little effort. “Disappear back into _Lowtown_. Rest assured I will not make the mistake of looking for help outside the faithful again. The stakes – eternity – are just too high.”

And, with that, she glides from the safe house as dignified as she’s able. Which isn’t all that much. Rather, it’s more like she storms out, taking the clouds with her. Varnell follows at her heels, shooting each of them a harsh glare as he leaves.

The door slams closed behind them.

“We’ll be hearing from that one again,” Fenris remarks.

 

 

 

He tries his best to put the thought of it all behind him, but it’s difficult. Gareth cannot help but linger on Arvaarad’s words, on how quick he was to violence. And, he wonders, if that is the reaction he can expect from others, come they learn of his being a mage.

Rationally, he knows, that not everyone would shun him or attempt to kill him outright. The people who he helps in Anders’ clinic are always so grateful for his aide, that he’s certain that they would sing praises of the both of them if allowed. But they recognize the need for secrecy, especially in a place like Kirkwall where templar raids are more common than rain.

Still, though, it haunts his dreams.

He cannot change who he is. He cannot change _what_ he is. He will always be a mage.

And never before has he thought of what life would be like if he was not.

Being a mage is all he’s ever known, and he’s never regretted the gifts that he received. They’ve been a blessing, that’s kept his family alive and safe.

_But he couldn’t save Bethany_.

The memory of it still haunts him.

He remembers the chill of her skin, the promise he made to her. And he remembers every single moment of her body flying through the air, the blood clinging to her skin and the sightless gaze of her eyes when he last beheld her. She’d been so young, so undeserving…

He wishes she were here now. It would be better if it was him, that lay dead on Fereldan soil.

It’s in such a mindset that he first meets Macha.

Coming back from running some errands for an overworked Aveline, he finds her in the courtyard in front of the Chantry, begging an indifferent templar for help.

When she spots him, her eyes well up with tears, “Please, can you help me? My brother.”

“What happened to your brother?” he asks. Carver and his mother are all he has left; he would do anything for them. How can he turn away a woman who desperately worries about her own?

“Keran was always so devout, so idealistic. He was so _proud_ when the templars accepted him,” she continues, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. “I pleaded with him not to join the Order, but he wouldn’t listen. You hear dark rumours about the templars and Knight-Commander Meredith. And now my brother is gone.”

“Gone?”

She nods, the motion jerky and frantic, “Keran would write me every day. Then, suddenly, no more letters. I wrote him many times with no response. It’s been weeks. I tried to see him, but Knight-Commander Meredith threw me out! They won’t tell me anything!”

“Your brother may indeed be in trouble,” Gareth says, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I’ll do everything in my power to find him. And find out why he’s stopped writing to you.”

“Oh! Thank you so much!” She beams at him in great relief, “In the Gallows, find the recruits Wilmod and Hugh and ask them about my brother. They were Keran’s closest friends in the Order. If anyone knows where he is, it’s them.”

He squeezes her shoulder, “You have my word, I will find out what has become of your brother.”

“Maker bless you and watch after you in this endeavour.”

With that, she vanishes back into the crowd, leaving Gareth standing with his hand extended.

He pulls it back, clenches his fist, and wonders after what he’s just done.

 

 

 

“You did _what_?!”

Carver, of course, makes his displeasure known.

“She needed help. Who was I to turn her down?”

“Her brother is a _templar_. You’re a – well, you know what you. You shouldn’t have made such a promise. We’ve spent enough time in the Gallows as it is; you can’t risk spending any more time there, much less interrogating templar recruits!”

He bites his lip, “If it were me missing, you would look for me. I couldn’t… all I thought of was… Bethany and I just couldn’t say no. I couldn’t let someone else…”

Carver makes a noise deep in his throat, runs his hand roughly through his hair. “Fine, brother. We’ll do this. But I’m coming with you.”

“Thank you, Carver.”

He scowls, “You learn to say no, Gareth. That bleeding heart of yours is going to get you killed one of these days.”

 

 

 

When they stop by the Hanged Man to see if Varric will come along, it’s to find that, for once, he’s not there. Instead, Isabela and Anders are.

“Ohhh, so you _were_ that mage who could do that – oh! Hello, Hawke!”

Anders straightens up immediately, “Hawke? What brings you here?”

“We were looking for Varric, but he’s apparently not here,” Gareth replies. “You two aren’t up to anything, are you?”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Carver asks, eyeing Anders. “One… of you is bad enough to bring to the Gallows…”

“Why are you going to the Gallows? That’s dangerous, isn’t it?”

“Gareth here’s agreed to help a girl find her missing brother,” Carver answers. “Who just so _happens_ to be a _templar_ recruit.”

Anders stares, “You did, did you?”

“I couldn’t very well say no, could I?” He doesn’t even know why he’s feeling so defensive. “She was desperate to find him, and well… it can’t hurt to look, right?”

“I… suppose not,” Anders replies, downing the rest of his drink before pushing his chair away and standing up. “Well, if you need my help, than you have it.”

“Thank you.”

Isabela shrugs, tosses her hair over her shoulder, “I suppose that I’ll have to come along to. Someone needs to keep the lot of you out of trouble and it’s certainly not going to be Carver.”

“Hey!”

“You boys are always neck deep in trouble,” Isabela says. “I’m just saying…”

“If Gareth would just listen to me, we could avoid half of that trouble.”

“Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.” She rubs her hands together, “So, down to business. What’s our first step?”

“We need to head for the Gallows, speak with two of the recruits there by the names of Wilmod and Hugh. They’re apparently two of Keran’s closest friends, so if anyone has any idea of where he might have gone, they would.”

“Excellent! Let’s be off!”

“Why are you so excited about this?”

“It’s a mystery, isn’t it? Those are always exciting to solve – like something out of one Varric’s stories. Oh, I’ll have to tell him all about this later! He’ll be so _envious_ that he missed out. You know he’s already spinning stories about you, right Hawke?”

“I’m aware.”

“You cut quite the dashing figure in those tales of his. Someone larger than life. If I didn’t know you, I’d figure that he’d made you up. But no,” she pokes one of his arms, “You’re as real as me or Carver.”

“I don’t know if that’s a compliment or an insult.”

“Compliment. Definitely a compliment.”

Anders laughs, covering his mouth with his hand, “You are something else, Hawke.”

He sighs. It’s going to be another long day.

 

 

 

Within the Gallows, the templar recruits are easy enough to find. They congregate along one side of the courtyard, gossiping amongst themselves and eyeing everyone who passes them with wary eyes.

Gareth approaches three of them, two men and a woman. It seems a promising enough place to start.

“Are either of you Wilmod or Hugh?”

“I’m Hugh,” one says. He nervously runs his hand through his red hair, “What can I do for you?”

“Do you know a recruit named Keran? His sister is looking for him.”

“We cannot speak to you, messere,” the woman responds, crossing her arms.

“To the Void with that!” Hugh snaps. “Keran and the others are missing.”

“But our orders!” hisses the other man.

“The knights aren’t doing anything to help find them. Maybe it’s time to ask for outside help.”

“I wasn’t even certain that Keran _was_ missing,” Gareth says. “Who else is gone?”

“The first ones disappeared weeks ago,” Hugh says in a hushed voice. He leans towards Gareth, “There’s been at least a half dozen. Keran and Wilmod were the most recent.”

It clearly looks as though the third recruit has something burning a hole in his tongue to say. Gareth gives him his best reassuring smile and says, “You can trust me. I’m only trying to keep Keran safe.”

“I hear that Knight-Commander Meredith has some new initiation you have to go through. If you’re not strong enough or fervent enough in belief, you don’t make it out alive.”

The woman scoffs, “And you _believe_ that?”

“Recruits keep going missing,” Hugh replies, with a shrug.

“Wilmod came back.”

“ _What_?”

“He did,” she says. “I saw him this morning.”

“If Wilmod came back, he might know something about the other missing recruits,” Hawke says.

“I bet he would,” Hugh crosses his arms, scowling.

“Wilmod told me he was going outside Kirkwall. ‘Clear his head’, he said,” the woman supplies.

“Why didn’t you tell us this?!”

She shrugs, “Knight-Captain Cullen ordered it. Right before he chased after Wilmod. That wasn’t too long ago. If you hurry, you may catch them on the road.”

“Thank you. You’ve all been a great help. If I learn anything, you’ll certainly know.”

“Maker watch over you.”

“Well, that went… well.”

Anders shrugs, “We didn’t do anything suspicious. So long as we keep to not doing anything particularly… mage-y, then they won’t suspect a thing. It’s Cullen that we should be worried about.”

“Why? You know him?”

Anders nods, “He used to be a templar at Kinloch. I didn’t know him well, but Aisling, well, he had something of a crush on her. It… didn’t end well, from what I gather. Last I heard, he’d been reassigned to Kirkwall after the Blight. It – after what happened, it seemed… logical. He’s… damaged, I suppose you could say.”

“Damaged?”

Anders glances around, then drops his voice, “During the Blight, the Circle nearly fell to blood mages and demons. I didn’t personally witness it, but rumour has it he… spent several days being tormented by demons. It left him… more than a little paranoid. I left before he was reassigned, but before he had not been particularly known for fearing mages. After, well… he never could look at any of us without seeing the demons that tortured him.”

“That’s…”

“Horrible, I know,” Anders says. “We don’t speak of what happened before Miri arrived. She put an end to it all, saved the lot of us and kept the Circle from being purged in the process. The Maker was truly watching out for us when he sent her.”

“Then we’ll avoid using magic around this Cullen,” Gareth says. “You can manage that, right?”

“If there’s fighting, I won’t be much use, but yes.”

Gareth smiles, “We’ll add that to the list: Teaching you to fight properly.”

 

 

 

Finding Cullen and Wilmod proves surprisingly easy. Neither made it far from Kirkwall, only to a fork in a nearby pass of the foothill of the Vimmark’s.

“Andraste be my witness, Wilmod! I will have the truth from you! Now!”

Gareth only catches sight of a backhand to the face. It quickens his step.

“Mercy, ser, mercy!”

“Were it that easy,” the blond man growls.

“Don’t hit me.”

“I will know where you’re going. And I will know now!”

He grabs the templar’s arm without think, “You will not lay another hand on that boy!”

Carver grabs his shoulder and hisses, “It’s the blasted knight-captain! Don’t!”

“This is _templar_ business, stranger,” Cullen says.

Before any of them can say anything more on the topic, or make another move, the air is wrent by a truly terrifying sounding laughter. Everyone’s eyes shift to the templar recruit, Wilmod, who has thrown his head back while he madly cackles.

His entire body seizes up, eyes bulging, as he proclaims, “You have struck me the last time, you pathetic human! To me!”

At his words, shades pull themselves from the shadows, their hands clawing deep gouges into the hard-packed dirt. And as for Wilmod, well, he undergoes a transformation of his own.

Gareth’s only seen one abomination before in his life, but he will never get used to the sight.

Wilmod’s limbs twitch, muscles spasming, as his body elongates. There’s the sharp snap-crackle of bones breaking and realigning. The armour pops, the joints and seams separating as he grows far larger than it can accommodate, but rather than fall off, his body only seems to partially _absorb_ it. His skin changes from the warm, if pale, flush of life to a rotten facsimile, until he more resembles a stretched out, rotten corpse than a living, breathing human.

“Maker preserve us,” Cullen breathes, drawing his sword and shield.

Fighting an abomination is difficult, made even more so by the fact that they’re short a man as Anders is unable to cast any of his offensive magic. He does, however, take over Gareth’s usual role as support and keeps them in the fight; infusing him with that strange sense of righteousness every time he closes their wounds.

It’s a short, brutal fight, that gives Gareth time to appreciate never having had to come face to face with a templar.

Cullen is an effective warrior, more defensive than Carver, but he angles his shield down to direct the flames that the abomination conjures away from him, before he brings his sword up and around to take off one of its limbs. Even Gareth, with what little formal training he has, can sense the pulse of lyrium coming from him as he fights – allowing him to shrug off the heat of the blaze as though it’s nothing more than a summer breeze.

The shades are easy, compared to the abomination that was Wilmod. Each of them goes down with a single, well-aimed blow.

It’s Cullen who lands the killing blow on the abomination, taking its head clean off.

The creature spasms, once, twice, before it collapses to the ground and promptly immolates itself. It leaves behind little more than an outline of dark ash on the ground.

After the fight, Cullen wipes sweat and ash from his brow, “I knew… I knew he was involved in something sinister, but this… is it even possible?”

“He was possessed,” Gareth says, simply. His stomach clenches. Aren’t templars immune to demonic possession?

“Normally, we only worry that mages will fall victim to possession. I have heard of blood mages, or demons in solid form, who could summon others into unwilling hosts,” Cullen says. “But I had not thought one of our own would be susceptible.”

“I’m glad that we came along when we did,” Gareth says. “To help you.”

Behind him, he hears the sound of Carver slamming his face into his palm. It’s followed by a muttered ‘idiot’.

“I am Knight-Captain Cullen.” He gives a small nod of the head to Gareth, “I thank you for your assistance. I’ve been… conducting an investigation into a number of our missing recruits. Wilmod was the rest to return. My hope had been to question him quietly, out of sight. I had not – well, it does not matter now.”

“If you didn’t know that he was possessed, then why harm him?”

“He had only been back a few days when he left again secretly. It set off some warning bells,” Cullen shrugs. “He had to believe that my threats were genuine.”

Gareth frowns, “And you have no idea what happened to him while he was gone?”

“Obviously,” Cullen stresses the word, “more than I had anticipated. My suspicion was that he was meeting old friends who had escaped the Circle, but I see now that was mislaid.”

“I was actually trying to find another recruit, a friend of Wilmod’s. Do you know anything about where Keran might be?”

Cullen shakes his head, “He also disappeared. The most I know is that the both of them were last spotted at the Blooming Rose. But I, ah, had no luck interrogating the, um, _young ladies_ there. I doubt that they would know anything of magic or demons.”

“Ohhh, the brothel,” Isabela grins. “This keeps getting more and more intriguing!”

“If someone tries to hire me again, I leave,” Anders mutters.

Gareth sighs. Well, it’s a start. “Perhaps I’ll have better luck.”

“The Order would truly be in your debt if you help us with this,” Cullen says, clearly relieved. “No one at the… brothel will speak with me for fear I would shut them down for serving our recruits. I have no interest in doing so, but if you learn what manner of creature did this to Wilmod, I would be very grateful to know and will see that you are properly rewarded. For now, I must return to the Gallows and… continue to _oversee_ the recruits’ training.”

“Well,” Carver begins. “That was… somewhat useful. I suppose that having a knight-captain’s gratitude might come in handy.”

“I know you’ve been to the brothel before, Carver,” Isabela says, rubbing her hands together and grinning. “But I don’t think your big brother has. Has he?”

“What?! No! And, Carver, you–”

“Oh come now, you’ve never found yourself wanting for some _intimate_ company? Or are you saving yourself for someone special?”

Gareth turns red to his ears, “Isabela!”

 

 

 

The Blooming Rose dominates the Red Lantern District that borders on the edge of Hightown. Gareth’s passed by it before, but never been inside of it himself. There wasn’t a brothel in Lothering, so he has no idea what to expect when he steps through the door.

Carver opts to stay outside, his face turning a bright pink that nearly puts the large banners hanging from the brothel to shame. Electing to keep him company, rather than risk being mistaken for one of the workers again, Anders stays with him.

“We’ll just… wait here for you,” Carver says, awkwardly.

“Keep an eye out for templars,” Anders adds.”

Isabela rolls her eyes, “Honestly, men can be such babies sometimes.”

The brothel is sumptuously decorated, with its entrance hall leading into a large area with tables, chairs, and a bar along one wall. People mill around the room, some gathered around tables, while others weave their way through the maze of tables. The majority of those moving are dressed scantily, likely the brothel’s workers.

And, standing at the bar, is a _very_ familiar figure.

“ _Gamlen_?”

His uncle jumps a good distance, then turns around, his face flaming red. His eyes shoot wide open when he spots Gareth and he stutters, “Listen – I won’t tell your mother about this if you don’t.”

Considering that’s the last thing he wants, Gareth clicks his mouth closed and nods.

“So _that’s_ your uncle, huh? Can’t really see the family resemblance,” Isabela remarks, as they walk away.

“You need something, honey?” a woman asks. She’s dressed in comfortable, though well-made clothes. She keeps her hands on her hips, giving Gareth an appraising once-over. “Name’s Viveka – and no, I’m not one of the girls.”

Gareth clears his throat and fights down the blush in his cheeks, “A couple of templar recruits have gone missing. They were last seen here.”

“You’ll have to be more specific than that. We do a _lot_ of... _business_ with the templars.”

“Please, their names are Wilmod and Keran. If you know anything, it would be a great help – lives may be in the balance,” Gareth pleads.

“Now, now,” she chides gently. “No need to get all dramatic on me. Let me take a look through the books.”

She ducks back behind the bar, pulling out a very large, worn leather-bound book. She cracks it open, finger trailing down the long list of names that Gareth can’t entirely make out.

“Keran… Wilmod… Here we go!” She glances up, smiling. “Wilmod came in here a _lot_. You sure he had time to be a templar? The both of them last saw…” Her voice falls, going flat, “Idunna, the Exotic Wonder from the East.”

Isabela chokes on her laughter.

Gareth’s eyebrow quirks up, “That’s… quite the stage name.”

“Better than ‘The Tramp from Darktown’. You should hear what some of the others are called.”

“No thank you.”

She shrugs, “Suit yourself.”

“There’s nothing else you can tell us?”

Viveka gives him a pointed look, “Honey, I could write _volumes_ on the things I know. Unless you want Wilmod’s favourite position, I think you have what you need.” She leans across the counter, voice dropping, “But you didn’t hear _any_ of this from me. We clear?”

Gareth nods.

“Good. Now, she’ll be upstairs. Third door on the left down the hall on your right.”

The door in question is open when they reach it. It leads into a small, but elegantly appointed room with a bed and dresser in it.

Idunna is, luckily, fully clothed, but that doesn’t stop her from giving Gareth a sultry once-over when he enters the room. Her eyes flicker to Isabela for a moment, then back to Gareth. She smirks, and the expression is rather reminiscent of a cat.

“Idunna, right?” he asks. He really just wants to be out of here. “Do you remember ‘entertaining’ a templar named Wilmod a few weeks ago? Or Keran?”

“Wilmod… Wilmod…” She taps a painted nail against her chin. “That doesn’t sound familiar.”

“I know he saw you frequently.”

Her smirk turns predatory, “With a body like mine, men rarely have time to give me their names. They’re too busy doing… other things.” She sits down on the bed, stretching her body out seductively, “Questions are boring. Why don’t we have some real fun?”

He swallows down the lump in his throat.

Isabela elbows him in the back, grinning, “Are you certain we can’t postpone this, Hawke?”

“You should listen to your friend,” Idunna advises, her tone sultry and low.

“We need to ask her about Keran,” Gareth says. “What’s your problem?”

Isabela stares at him flatly, “You really can be quite a bore. You know that, right?”

He turns back to Idunna, steeling himself, “I’m here on business. Keran. Wilmod.”

Standing from the bed, Idunna leans forward conspiratorially, “Answer one of _my_ questions first. Who told you about little old me?”

Pain burns through his veins and he nearly chokes on his own breath. _Can’t move_. Every muscle in his body spasms and locks up. He can’t even move his eyes; he’s a prisoner within his own flesh. The name burns on his tongue and he nearly bites it off, trying to fight the effects.

_Blood magic_.

She’s more powerful than Decimus was, that’s for certain. She tilts her head to the side, waiting for an answer.

“Come on now, you can tell me…” she purrs.

“It… was Viveka,” he chokes out the words, nearly gagging on them. But he can’t. His body is no longer entirely his own.

Isabela must be in a similar state, because he hears a choked noise behind him.

“Now see? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She smiles, simpers. “So… Viveka sold me out, did she? That drab, pathetic sewer rat. _She_ will be dealt with. But… you need to do just one more thing for me, love. Draw your blade, and bring it gently across your throat.”

Resisting makes every muscle in his body scream with pain. It burns. He wonders if this is what it’s like to die. _Was this what Bethany felt?_

“I will…”

**_No_ ** _._

There’s a surge of strength within him, sudden and hot, pulsing up through him. He jerks his knife from his neck, snapping the strings controlling him with the thought that _he cannot die_ ; he will _not_ be someone’s plaything.

“... not be toyed with.”

Idunna’s eyes fly wide, “What the – oh shit!”

Before she can do much else, one of Isabela’s daggers buries itself in her chest.

Coughing, Isabela rubs her throat and scowls, “Let’s search her things. I bet she’s got more secrets.”

“Are you alright, Isabela?”

She nods, but there’s a thin line of crimson blossoming across her neck. It takes but a thought to close it, and Isabela wipes the blood away.

“Thanks.”

“Any time.”

There’s very little in the room and Gareth is unsure what they should do with the body. Isabela shrugs it off and says, “Don’t worry, I’ll deal with it. And don’t look at me like that; it happens more often than you think.”

What they _do_ find, buried under a stack of clothing in one of the drawers, is a pile of letters addressed to Idunna. A quick glance through them reveals that she’s merely one part of a much bigger plan.

“Looks like her masters have made their den in the Undercity,” Gareth says, looking up from the letters. “We’ll search there, see if we can find Keran. Hopefully, he’s still alive and unpossessed.”

Humming, Isabela pulls the dagger free, wiping it on Idunna’s dress. She closes the door behind them when they leave and grins, “Apostate prostitutes, hm? Apos-titutes!”

Gareth groans. It’s going to be a _long_ day.

 

 

 

“Judging by the directions, I’d say we’re close. Probably – ah, yes – through here,” Anders says, pushing against a wall. It gives way, leading them into a long, narrow tunnel. “Honestly, blood mages are so uncreative.”

“Lucky for us,” Carver mutters.

“We should be careful,” Anders chides. “Who knows what this many blood mages may have conjured to defend themselves?”

Anders is right to be cautious. The narrow tunnel, which looked empty before, is in actuality full of shades that they have to slay in order to continue forward. There’s even a rage demon, likely summoned as a gatekeeper.

Though they’re covered in soot and ash by the time they emerge into a larger room, they’ve proven victorious thus far. But there’s still no sign of Keran.

“Do you really believe that Keran might be here?” Anders asks softly.

“There’s a turn in the cavern up ahead,” Carver says. “Looks like… cells, maybe?”

“They must keep the recruits imprisoned until they can–”

“How wonderful! More vessels for our experiments!”

The woman is tall, perhaps a little taller than Gareth, and her make-up causes her to look far more demented. Her eyes are wide, wild, and she hums with something dark and mysterious; the Veil is thin around her, that much Gareth can discern.

Her mouth twists into a smirk and she claps her hands together excitedly.

“Where is Keran?”

“Perhaps the demons will find one of you suitable?” she wonders, completely ignoring Gareth’s question.

“Always the demon thing,” Anders remarks. “Can’t you people say ‘no’?”

Her face twists into a snarl, “I am not some hopeless waif that ran crying to a demon – I sought them out and embraced them!”

“And is that why you’re targeting the templar recruits? Because the demons said to?” Gareth asks.

“The templars!” She snaps. “We will destroy their entire pathetic Order. If a few more templars fall to the demons, we can seed chaos in their ranks! How many abominations can they discover amongst their own before it drives the knight-commander crazy?”

Anders and Gareth exchange a look and nod, carefully they draw their staff and stave respectively. The woman is clearly too far gone; there will be no reasoning with her, she’s already monologuing.

“In days of old, the Tevinter Imperium spanned the known world! Demons were their allies – held in check by power and knowledge! With a wave of my hand, I could do more than a templar can achieve in a lifetime. Yet they command us? Absurd!”

She draws her own staff, slams one end into the ground and summons a small army of shades to her sides, “We should be ruling them. We should rule you all! Kill the vessels only if you must!”

If he’s being honest, Gareth has seen enough shades and demons to last him a lifetime. Because once they defeat the shades and turn their attention to the woman, she summons a demon to defend herself.

“Careful!” Anders calls out. “Desire demon!”

Isabela flips over it, daggers flashing in her hands as she stabs into the demon’s back.

It roars, sounding nothing like the beautiful horned woman that it looks to be.

Ripping her daggers free, Isabela rolls out of the way. Just in time, as Carver brings his great sword down upon the demon – decapitating it. The creature crumples to the ground, it’s body crumbling into smoke and ash as it does.

That leaves the woman, who has become more and more animated with each servant of hers that they slay. She swings her staff about, sending out bolts of blood which are easily countered by Gareth and Anders.

Gareth stuns her with a spirit bolt, giving Isabela the distraction necessary to lodge a blade in the woman’s throat.

Her body crumples to the ground, gurgling as she goes.

Anders grimaces, but quickly lights her corpse on fire. The last thing they need is to deal with yet another abomination; Gareth has had his fill.

However, Carver was right and there’s a small alcove towards the back of the cavern that opens into a series of crudely carved out cells. Three of them are empty, but the last one holds a young man who scrambles to his knees when he sees them.

“Is it… is it over?”

“Keran?”

Isabela sets about picking the lock on the cell, but it merely cracks apart under her fingers.

“Yes, that’s my name,” he climbs to his feet, stepping gingerly out of the cell. “Oh, thank the Maker. I thought He had abandoned me.”

“So… when do we find out if this one’s got a demon inside?” Isabela asks.

“Wh-what happens now?”

Gareth tilts his head at Anders, “Any chance you can tell if Keran has an extra passenger?”

“Well,” Anders replies. “There’s one sure way.”

With a push of his hand, he sends a blast of magical energy straight through Keran.

Keran shrieks, “What was that about?!”

“If there was a demon in there, it would have defended itself. Looks like he’s clear.”

“Please, don’t tell the templars,” Keran begs. “I don’t know what they’d do to me. Please. I–I need to go back to my sister.”

“Go ahead and leave, Keran. You’ve been through enough.”

They watch him scamper off. Anders tips his head towards Gareth, “When you talk with Ser Cullen, you _maybe_ downplay the blood magic angle. We don’t need the templars cracking down even harder.”

“Right.”

“I never… I never understood why people could be so terrified of mages. Our family had three. Father. You… Bethany. But this…” Carver shakes his head. “Andraste was right to warn against magic.”

He looks at his brother, “Magic comes with choices, like anything else. But the majority of us simply want to be free.”

“It’s just… I never really thought about their side. Now I see.”

“Will you be alright, Carver?”

“I’m _fine_. We should report to the knight-captain.”

 

 

 

Cullen is exactly where he promised to be, within the Gallows courtyard. Though there isn’t a single recruit in sight of him but Keran, and Macha who is embracing her brother tightly.

She breaks away when she spots them, running over and skidding to a stop right in front of Gareth, “Oh, thank you so much, serah! I don’t know if I can ever repay you for what you’ve done! Certainly not with Keran’s pay–”

“Allow me to handle that, miss. You have done the Order a great service, locating Keran. He tells me that you rescued him…?” Cullen follows behind her at a more sedate pace, with Keran trailing behind a little bit like a little lost puppy.

“We discovered a… conspiracy of blood mages,” Gareth says. “That were planning to sow discord and chaos within your ranks. However, we dealt with the masterminds behind it; they should trouble you no more.”

Cullen nods, “And what of Keran? He isn’t...”

“We conducted tests,” Gareth replies. “He’s safe.”

“Thank the Maker,” Cullen breathes. He runs his hand through his hair. “I’ve lost enough recruits in recent days. The last thing I need is to report that I had lost one more. You have my gratitude, serah…?”

“Hawke.”

“Thank you, Serah Hawke. The Order owes you a debt of gratitude for solving this mess.”

Before he leaves, he hands Gareth a small coin pouch. They’re that much closer to becoming partners in the expedition, Gareth thinks. They’re that much closer to the safety of a Hightown estate; he’ll be able to provide properly for his mother and brother.

Just a little while longer, he thinks. They only need to work a little bit more…

 

 

 

Gareth is beginning to wonder if he simply has a sign above his head stating ‘ask me anything’ or if his reputation really does proceed him.

He’d planned nothing more for the day than to bring Fenris a care package his mother had put together for him, only to end up being roped into coming down to the Hanged Man for cards and a drink with him and Varric.

Unfortunately, they never _quite_ make it that far.

They’re halted in the courtyard in front of the Keep by a man who grabs Gareth’s arm, startling him and making Fenris’ marks pulse for a moment in warning.

“Fereldan,” the man says. “I wish to speak with you.”

Gareth blinks, stares at the man who wears the robes of a city magistrate. Shit, he can’t remember if he’s done anything too illegal as of late.

The magistrate releases his arm, straightens his robe, “I’ve heard you have dealings with certain… _elements_ in the city. You can get things done ‘on the sly’, as they say?”

Turning to him, he frowns, “Can I help you with something?”

“I am a magistrate of this city and, as such, I wish to hire you for a small, albeit important, job,” the magistrate says. “A man I sentenced to life in prison has escaped custody. He’s been tracked to an abandoned ruin just outside of the city.”

“Anything else I need to know?”

“There is something, yes. There are… _creatures_ in the ruins. The guards I sent are ill-equipped to deal with such beasts.”

“Very well, I’ll take the job.”

“Hawke–”

“Bring the fugitive in alive, quickly and quietly. Not only will you be well paid, you’ll have the gratitude of a city magistrate. Useful for a refugee, wouldn’t you agree?”

With that, the magistrate strides off towards the Keep.

Fenris has pinched the bridge of his nose, “Must you agree to help every person who asks?”

“You don’t need to come, Fenris,” Gareth says. “I’ll stop in the Keep and ask Aveline–”

“No,” Fenris says firmly. “I will come with you as well.”

 

 

 

“I’ve heard nothing of any escaped convicts,” Aveline says. “You’re certain that’s what he said?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, let’s go. I want to get to the bottom of this.”

 

 

 

It isn’t a long journey to the ruins that the convict has fled to. When they arrive, it’s to find a small gathering of guards milling about outside the entrance.

Gareth approaches one, “I’ve been sent for the man you have cornered in the ruins.”

“Ah, so you’re the reinforcements that the magistrate promised,” he says, crossing his arms. “The man you’re looking for is holed up inside those ruins there. Though I doubt he’s still in one piece.”

“That bastard’s to be brought in alive after all he’s done?! Just because it isn’t you and your pretty little shemlen children he’s after…”

Gareth glances at the elf that interrupts, “What do you mean?”

“The man you’re after? He targets elves! He dragged my daughter into those ruins and killed her! I want him dead!” He takes a deep, shuddering breath, then glares at Gareth, “My girl, Lia, she wasn’t his first victim. Over the years he’s taken dozens of our children and not once has he paid for his crimes!”

“I’ll deal with him,” Gareth says. “You have my word.”

He blinks, “Thank you, serah. You have no idea what this means.”

“You couldn’t turn to the guards?” Aveline asks.

“For all my damned coin, I’m still only an elf to these shemlen.” His hands ball into fists at his sides, “There’ll be no justice for my girl in the courts of Kirkwall.”

Gareth looks at Aveline and Fenris, nods, “This murderer will not be allowed to walk free any longer.”

“Then that bastard will finally get what he deserves,” the elf says. “Thank you.”

The guard frowns, grabs Gareth’s arm when he tries to walk past him, “Not wise, stranger. You try to take justice into your own hands, the magistrate’ll have your head.”

“Only if it’s reported,” Aveline mutters.

“I must do what is right,” Gareth says simply.

The ruins, as it turns out, are likely an old Deep Roads entrance that has long since caved in somewhere within its reaches. All Gareth knows is that they’re not going to stick around too long to find out; they only have to find the man and deal with him.

While there is no shortage of creatures inhabiting the ruins, they’re easily dealt with by Aveline and Fenris’ blades and Gareth’s stave. With the advantage of a spirit healer on their side, they don’t have to worry about tiring from the seemingly constant waves of creatures that they encounter.

“Do you really think he’s still alive?” Aveline asks

“We need to be sure,” Gareth says. “We cannot let a man who preys on children go free. Either we kill him ourselves or make certain that he’s already dead. Those are the only options we have.”

Aveline nods, “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

They continue to make their way through the ruins, slaying what creatures they come across. There are, however, fewer and fewer of them the further that they venture in, which is unusual.

“Why do you–oof!”

Gareth glances down, finding himself with a sudden armful of small, elven child, “What–?”

“Please! Can you get me out of here? I just want to go home!”

“Who – Lia?” Gareth asks, shocked. “Your father told us you were dead!”

She blinks up at him with wide, deep brown eyes, “My father? Is he safe? Kelder said that he’d hurt my family if I didn’t go with him…”

With a gentle nudge of magic, he looks her over, “Are you alright? I don’t see any injuries…”

Lia shifts, stares at her feet, “He hit me, told me I was nothing. I begged him to stop hurting me. I didn’t think he would, but out of nowhere, he pushed me away and just… started crying. Don’t you see? He didn’t mean to hurt me! He told me! There are demons, _they_ make him do these terrible things!”

“Demons? What did they look like?”

“I… I don’t know what they look like,” Lia admits. “I didn’t actually see any of them. But Kelder told me to run, to get away so they couldn’t make him hurt me anymore. Please! Don’t kill him! It’s not his fault! Please...”

“She is a child and does not understand,” Fenris says. “Her pity is admirable, but misplaced.”

“I’m sorry, Lia,” Gareth says.

“But it’s not his fault! It’s not!”

Laying a comforting hand between her shoulders, Gareth points back the way that they’ve come. It’s relatively straight-forward, with only a few turns.

“Run to the entrance,” he tells Lia. “You’ll find your father there.”

Biting her lip, Lia nods. She’s shaking like a leaf in the wind when she releases Gareth and runs towards the entrance.

“Well,” Aveline says. “It looks like a tragedy’s been averted.”

Gareth nods, “Now all that remains is to find this Kelder and deal with him.”

He was right about the ruins. They end in a cave-in not far from where they found Lia. And, sitting on the floor, is a man.

Contrary to how a fugitive should be dressed, Kelder is dressed in fine, if plain, clothes. His face is soft, round, and he shows no signs of a man who has been kept in supposed life-long confinement. Rather, he looks well-fed and incredibly well-cared for – more like a pampered noble’s son than a serial child murderer.

“I knew my father would send someone,” Kelder says as they approach. “I was hoping that the beasts down here would get to me first.”

“The magistrate sent me. I’ve never met your father.”

“He didn’t tell you, did he?” Kelder looks up and it’s striking, the resemblance. “The magistrate _is_ my father.”

Kelder pushes himself to his feet, sways when he does, “He’s tried so hard to keep me – and what I’ve done – hidden away.”

“Not hard enough, it seems,” Fenris says.

“I’m disgusted by the both of them,” Aveline adds.

“The magistrate is supposed to _protect_ the people of the city,” Gareth snaps. “And that _includes_ the elves.”

“Father is a good man,” Kelder defends, clasping his hands together in front of himself. “He tried to help, to stop me. But he can’t… no one can. That elf girl,” his tone turns dreamy, “She had no right to be so beautiful, so perfect. The demons said she had to be punished. The demons said she needed to be taught a lesson, like all the others. The Circle was supposed to help me, but they lied! They said there were no demons, that I was mad. This isn’t my fault!”

“If the Circle suspected a demon at work, they wouldn’t have let you loose in the city,” Gareth says, lips curling in disgust.

“No! They lied!” Kelder blinks, sways on his feet, then says softly, “I can’t stop. I’ve tried so many times. Please, you have to kill me. There’s no other way.”

“He sees the truth of it,” Fenris says, stepping forward. “Allow me to grant his wish.”

Gareth nods, resheathes his blade. He turns to Kelder, “Any last words before he kills you, Kelder?”

“Tell my father I’m sorry… for everything.”

 

 

 

With the deed done, they emerge from the ruins back into sunlight of a late afternoon.

Lia and her father are there, along with the guard that Gareth spoke with when they first arrived. The former two are embracing tightly, but they pull apart when their group emerges from the ruins.

“You saved her! My little girl! I didn’t dare hope…” He looks at each of them, his eyes flickering to the stains on Fenris’ gauntlet before he looks back to Gareth. “Did you find that monster? Is he dead?”

“He won’t harm Lia, or anyone else, ever again,” Gareth replies.

“I didn’t believe an elf could ever find justice in Kirkwall. I speak for all of us when I say we are in your debt, serah.” He bows to them, before wrapping an arm around Lia’s shoulders and guiding her back towards the city and away from the sight of her terrifying experience.

The guard scoffs, “I feel just as bad for those knife-ears as the next man, but ignoring the magistrate’s direct orders? That’s madness.”

“If you cared so much, you wouldn’t call them such,” Gareth says. “And I did the right thing. That is _not_ madness.”

Storming off, the guard flips them off with a crude gesture.

Aveline lays a hand on Gareth’s shoulder and squeezes it, “Don’t worry about him. I’ll make sure that his report doesn’t make it to the viscount. And as for this _magistrate_ , he doesn’t matter. You’re right, Gareth, you did the right thing.”

“Thank you, Aveline. I appreciate it. And the help.”

“You know that I always have your back. I may not be able to come with you on this expedition, but I will keep you in my thoughts while you’re gone.”

He lays his other hand over hers, “You’re too good to us, Aveline.”

“Someone has to be.”

Returning to Kirkwall, Aveline leaves them at the Hightown entrance, pulled away by a guardsman for a report on some illicit activity or other such matter. She leaves with him, raising a hand to Gareth and Fenris in farewell as she goes.

However, Carver and Varric are there waiting for them.

“Got worried when Broody didn’t show up,” Varric says. “And Junior here showed up wondering whether I’d seen you today, Hawke. Which I hadn’t. Till now, at least.”

“Sorry, Carver. We–”

“Oh, we know already,” Carver snaps. “That magistrate was tearing up about how some upstart Ferelden refugee had gone against his direct orders. Really, Gareth. You couldn’t have done what he asked?”

“He was protecting his _son_ ,” Gareth responds, harsher than he intended. “Who was murdering children. And you expected that I would let him walk free?”

“Just… be careful, alright? The last thing we need is you pissing off anyone else who’s got power. Remember, we’re hiding from _your_ bloody templars.”

“I’m well-aware, Carver. You don’t need to remind me.”

“Seems like you do,” he mutters.

Gareth chooses to ignore that comment, “So, what brings the two of you to Hightown? Or are you just here to welcome us back?”

“Well, originally we came to see why neither of you showed up for drinks,” Varric says. Then he holds up a bounty posting and grins, “But then I remembered that you’re still a little short of that fifty sovereign goal and I figured that this would be right up your alley. C’mon, let’s go see this fine gentleman about his missing wife.”

Ghyslain de Carrac is an easy enough man to find. He’s engaged in a furious conversation with one of the guardsmen.

“What do you mean you can’t help me?!”

The guard sighs and shrugs, “This is a domestic matter, serah. If your wife has chosen to leave you, there’s nothing we can do.”

“Ninette is my wife!” Ghyslain slams his fist into his hand. “She’s legally bound to me! Bring her back!”

“We’re done here,” the guard says. And without another word, he and his compatriot turn and walk away, leaving Ghyslain standing on the street, gobsmacked.

Ghyslain throws his hands into the air, swears, and snaps at Gareth when he approaches, “Useless! Why are we still paying those sluggards?!”

Gareth blinks, “I heard that your wife is missing. I can try to find her, if you like.”

“Yes!” Ghyslain sighs happily. “I’ve been waiting for someone to say that! That foolish woman has caused me nothing but embarrassment. She needs to be dragged home.”

“I can’t imagine why she might run away,” Fenris mutters, shifting on his feet and crossing his arms.

“Yes, yes, my wife and I don’t get along,” Ghyslain waves his hand through the air. But he looks at Gareth imploringly, “But that’s not the important thing! Her family is getting suspicious. Even if – well, I just want to make sure they know I didn’t do it!”

Gareth stares at the man in horror, “You’re more concerned what her _family_ thinks than what happened to her?!”

“Ninette keeps the company of other men and makes no secret of it! I’d be better off with her gone!” But Ghyslain pauses, sighs, and his shoulders slump dejectedly. “Well, as long as her family knows I had nothing to do with it. They’d ruin me otherwise.”

“You don’t _care_ that Ninette might be hurt or dead. You sicken me,” Gareth says harshly.

“You’ve never lived with her!” Ghyslain snaps back. Then he runs a hand through his hair, “It wasn’t always like this, you see. We were in love once. She even defied her parents to marry me… sometimes I wonder if I dreamed those years.”

“I’ll try my best to find Ninette,” Gareth says. “But only to make certain that she’s alright. I won’t bring her home if she’s left you.”

Ghyslain shrugs, “That’s fine with me. You should begin by speaking with Jethann at the Blooming Rose. I didn’t know that she visited whores. Until Jethan sent a letter. To our house! He even sent her flowers once – lilies! Her favourite! Bah!” He throws his hands up, “Thinking about it makes my head hurt. Good luck to you, serah.”

“To the brothel again, then,” Carver sighs. “Great. Just what we needed.”

“Haven’t you been asking the lovely ladies there for advice? You know, if you want to court Daisy, you gotta be upfront and honest with her. Invite her to a drink at the Hanged Man, just the two of you. Or, better yet, ask Rivaini. She’s got experience with that sort of thing.”

“ _That’s_ why you’ve been visiting the Rose? Because you’re soft on Merrill?” Gareth asked. “Carver–”

“Don’t lecture me! You’re worse than I am!”

“I – that–”

“He’s got you there, Hawke.”

Gareth’s shoulders slump as his cheeks turn pink.

Fenris looks between the two brothers, confused, “I don’t understand.”

Varric pats him on the arm, “Don’t worry about it, Broody. I’ll explain it to you later.”

 

 

 

Luckily for them, Jethann’s not in his room but in the large bar area of the brothel. Gareth’s grateful for small mercies, because visiting the brothel twice within the span of a few days is more than enough for him.

Viveka points them in the right direction.

Grinning lazily, Jethann gives Gareth a lazy once over as they approach, “Today’s my rest day, but I’ll make an exception for you. What can I say? Why work if you’re not working _hard_?”

Carver coughs from behind him, followed by the sound of a forehead meeting a palm. Even Fenris groans at the innuendo.

Gareth elects to ignore it, “Jethann, right? Have you seen Ninette lately?”

Standing up straighter, Jethann hums, “Ninette? Not for several weeks, which is a shame. I enjoy her company. I did hear, though, that she’d left her worthless husband. Good for her! I just wish that she’d said goodbye.”

“Did she tell you that she left her husband?”

“Well, no, I just assumed that’s what she did,” Jethann admits. “Ghyslain only wants her for her family’s wealth, you see. Ninette’s a jewel. Elegant, worldly, just the _perfect_ amount of depraved. Ghyslain doesn’t deserve her.”

“Do you think that Ninette may have come to harm?” Gareth asks.

“I hope not! Everyone loves Ninette. Sometimes _twice_ a night,” he laughs. “Ghyslain is the only one who might hurt her. And he doesn’t have the balls for it.”

“You have no idea where she might be?” Gareth tries to be hopeful, maybe there’s something; otherwise this has turned out to be another dead end.

“Well, er… there _was_ someone else looking for Ninette,” Jethann admits, slowly. “A templar. I believe his name was Emeric? He wouldn’t sleep with me, either. I can’t see why a templar would be interested in her though; Ninette isn’t a mage.”

Gareth hums. It’s a start. “Perhaps Emeric knows something that we don’t.”

“Emeric said that he’d be continuing his investigation in Darktown. You could see if he’s still there,” Jethann says. “Oh, and when you find Ninette? Tell her to drop by and see me sometime.”

Jethann sees them off with a wink and a kiss blown in Gareth’s direction.

“Well, Hawke, can’t say you’re not popular. Sure you don’t wanna take him up on his offer?”

“Please no.”

“Agreed.”

Gareth splutters, going red in the face, “I wasn’t going to!”

 

 

 

Luckily for them, it’s easy enough to locate Emeric in Darktown. Templars aren’t popular in the lower segments of the city, so following his trail proves easy; though they do end up having to save him from a gang of street thugs that have proven themselves to be a little more than the older templar can handle.

“I thank you, serah, for coming along when you did,” he greets. “I am Emeric.”

“Just who we were looking for,” Gareth says, smiling. “I needed to speak with you about Ninette.”

“Ah, Ghyslain de Carrac’s wife,” Emeric says. “Yes, her disappearance interested me. I tried looking into it. However, the investigation has been a waste of time.”

“Did you learn nothing?”

Emeric shrugs, “Most people say she just left her husband. This all started when one of our Circle mages, Mharen, disappeared. I found it odd. She was a bit older and hardly adventurous. Then, I heard about Ninette and two other missing women – all of roughly the same age.”

“I had a friend who disappeared, once. Turns out he was under my bed, drunk,” Varric comments. “What?”

Gareth ignores him for the time being and turns his attention back to Emeric, who continues as though he hadn’t just been interrupted.

“I think the disappearances are connected, and I suspect foul play is involved.”

With a frown, Gareth asks, “Doesn’t the Circle use phylacteries to keep track of its mages?”

Emeric nods, “We followed her phylactery to a foundry but found nothing. I had heard of sympathizers smuggling mages through Darktown, so came here hoping to pick up the trail. But no trace of Mharen. And, as you’ve seen, asking the locals hasn’t made me very popular.”

“Can I assist your investigation?” Gareth offers.

“It’s no longer _my_ investigation, serah,” Emeric replies, shrugging. “You may take over, if you wish. This battle has shown me that I’m no longer the warrior that I used to be.”

With a heavy sigh, Emeric removes a sheaf of papers from within his armor and hands them to Gareth, “Here, take my findings. Perhaps you can make more use of them. I’m going back to the Gallows; I’m too old for this.”

Though he can’t make out much from the nearly illegible scribbles, one thing jumps out at him, “A foundry in Lowtown? I should look into that.”

 

 

 

The foundry mentioned in Emeric’s notes is easy to locate within the distract, though it’s one of the many that’s now rundown and derelict. It clearly hasn’t seen much use in recent years, making it the perfect hiding place for anyone who plans nefarious deeds. But, from interrogating a few of the people in the area, they learn little except that it’s abandoned and no one has been seen coming or going from the place in many years.

“Think it’s safe?” Carver asks.

“We won’t know till we enter. Be on your guard,” Gareth warns. “We don’t know what we might be dealing with.”

As though they haven’t dealt with their fair share of shades and demons of late, it turns out that the foundry is invested with them. Because no sooner do they step inside, than they’re beset by them; though before he’s lost to the rhythm of combat, Gareth spots someone on the higher level, who flees as quickly as he sees them.

“Why does everything we do have to involve magic?” Carver asks.

“Because that’s apparently our lot,” Gareth replies, slamming his staff into one shade before spinning about to impale another. 

“We’re terribly unlucky,” Fenris deadpans. “Either that or one of you is cursed.”

“Huh, look at that. Broody made a joke.”

“I do not brood.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Varric mutters.

Gareth chuckles. He has to admit, it’s not one of Fenris’ more attractive features.

Once the shades and desire demon have been dealt with, they’re free to proceed up to where Gareth spotted the figure. They’re long gone, and checking the surrounding rooms and passages nets them nothing but an assault from another set of shades that had been lurking there.

What they do, find, however, is a sack with a horrifying odor.

“That’s a lot of bones,” Carver murmurs.”

Gareth nudges it farther open with his toe, “A severed hand, a ring, and a pile of bones. Emeric will want to see this, and… I suppose I should bring the ring to Ghyslain. It might belong to Ninette.”

“Then they’re–”

“Dead,” Gareth confirms. “This is likely all that’s left of those missing women. Emeric will see that they’re… properly taken care of. Put to rest properly, as it were.”

“You could ask that Chantry brother, y’know, the one you helped, to say a prayer for them,” Varric offers. “What? He owes you one after that whole mercenary business.”

“I’ll ask him,” Gareth concedes. “For now, let’s leave. There’s nothing else for us here.”

 

 

 

He brings the sack of bones to Emeric first thing the next morning, before he goes to pay Ghyslain a visit.

“You might want to see this,” he says, handing him the sack. “It was left in the foundry that you mentioned in your notes. We were also attacked by shades when we entered to investigate.”

“These… are human bones,” Emeric sighs. “Then there is no chance of finding Mharen – or any of the others – alive.”

“I’m sorry. I did see someone at the scene, but they got away and I didn’t get a good look at them.”

Emeric shakes his head, “Do not worry, serah. It was more than I accomplished. I will bring this to the city guard immediately. It should be enough to convince them that the disappearances are worth investigating.”

“Let them know that I sent you.” Gareth smiles, “I’m on good terms with the presumptive guard-captain, she’ll give you a full audience when she knows that I sent you.”

“Thank you, Serah Hawke. I will do so.”

Once Emeric and him part ways, he leaves for Hightown and the de Carrac home. It’s on the lower side of Hightown, but is no less impressive for its location.

Ghyslain opens the door and Gareth presents him the ring, “This ring is all I have to return to you. I’m sorry.”

Taking it, Ghyslain turns it over in his hands. A sorrowful look steals across his face, “Ah… Ninette’s wedding ring. Yes. Look at the inscription. ‘Forever faithful, forever yours’.” He lets out a mournful sigh, “Written in happier times. Where did you find it?”

Gareth nearly tells him, but realizes it would be best for the man to live in ignorance. No one deserves to know what he does of Ninette’s faith – not even Ghyslain. “Just know that she will not return.”

With a somber nod, Ghyslain says, “It’s better this way. Our marriage has been in shambles for more than a decade. I’ll send the ring to her family. With luck, it will appease them. Thank you for all your help, serah. Maker watch over you.”

Before he closes the door, Ghyslain hands him a number of sovereigns and Gareth stares at them long after.

It’s time to pay Bartrand a little visit.


	9. and into the light we're fading

“You got it?” Varric’s face splits into a large grin. “Congratulations, Hawke! You’re officially our partner as of today!”

Gareth grins back, “Well, I still have to speak with Bartrand, but here’s to hoping that it’s worth it!”

“You’ll be a wealthy man, Hawke. I know that much. This expedition will set the lot of us up for life. So, decided on who is coming along yet?”

“Carver refuses to stay behind,” Gareth says, tapping his fingers against the side of his tankard. “And I can’t bring myself to force him to stay, so he’s coming. As for the others, Fenris has been the only other volunteer.”

“Huh, didn’t see Broody volunteering for anything.”

Gareth shrugs, heat settling in his cheeks, “He did. And I’ll be happy to have him along.”

“Hoping that it’ll bring the two of you closer together, huh?” Varric’s eyebrows go up. “Gotta admit, Hawke, you need to step your game up. Should ask Rivaini, I’m certain that she’d give you some tips on how to snare yourself that elf, if that’s what you’re after.”

“I can manage fine on my own, thank you.”

“Suit yourself, my friend.” Varric lowers his tankard and smirks, “Well, what brings you up here, Blondie?”

Turning around in his seat, Gareth faces Anders, “Anders?”

“Listen, I know that you’re hoping for volunteers for the expedition,” Anders begins, fiddling with his hands. “I’d rather not go to the Deep Roads if it can be helped, but if you need me, I’ll go. I… I suppose this is me volunteering, isn’t it?”

“Anders, if you don’t want to come, you don’t have. I won’t force you to do something you don’t want to do.”

Anders shakes his head, “No, I’ll come. I was a Warden, once, and you’ll have need of me in the Deep Roads. At the very least, I can keep you from walking into any darkspawn unawares.”

“Thank you, Anders,” Gareth says, smiling. “Your help will be appreciated – former Warden or not.”

“Alright, c’mon Blondie. Join us for a drink; it’s on me,” Varric’s grinning. “I’ve got a story to tell the both of you…”

 

 

 

The morning that he goes to meet with Bartrand dawns bright and early, which is hell on the throbbing headache that Gareth wakes with. He might have overindulged a little too much last night with Anders and Varric, but the latter has a way of making him lose track of more than just the time. He’d stumbled home, drunker than a skunk, at some ridiculous hour.

Luckily, his mother was asleep at the time, but Carver had stayed up to wait for him and rolled his eyes when he stumbled in, reeking of alcohol and slurring his words.

Nothing that a little bit of god awful herbal tea and a little magic can’t fix.

When he, Carver, and Varric stroll into the dwarven merchants’ quarter, he feels much more like himself than he did only a short hour before. The throbbing headache has subsided into a subtle ache, and the sunlight no longer feels like daggers stabbing into his eyes.

“Varric! Where did you get off to?” Bartrand greets his brother. He regards Gareth with a suspicious glare, “And what are you planning?”

“Bartrand! So suspicious!” Varric claps a hand over his heart, then gestures at Gareth. “I have, in fact, brought us our future partner!”

“Partner?! You stupid, nug-humping dirt-farmer! Why did you go promising something like that?!”

“Because if we don’t get this expedition moving, Bartrand, then we won’t have any profits to argue _about_. Now will we?”

Though he grumbles about it, Bartrand mutters, “ _Maybe_ you have a point.”

“So we’re partners?” Gareth asks, clearing his throat.

“That depends,” Bartrand says, grinning. “You got the coin we need?”

Holding out the pouch of sovereigns, Gareth can’t help but smile a little, “I do, in fact, have your coin.”

“You’re joking.”

“What did I tell you, Bartrand? Not bad for a human.”

“Alright, _partner_ ,” Bartrand practically spits the word out. “Full share of the profits between you, me, and Varric. Now, all we need is an entrance into the Deep Roads.”

Retrieving the maps that he collected from Varric the night before, Gareth holds them out, “These might just be what we need.”

Bartrand takes the maps from him, unrolling them and examining them. His eyes bulge when he spots what Gareth and Varric noticed before.

“What’s this? Three… four entrances into the Deep Roads, all in the Free Marches? Where did you get these?”

“Didn’t I tell you we could find a Grey Warden?” Varric remarks. “Mother didn’t raise a fool. Well.. she didn’t raise _two_ of them.”

“Well, colour me astounded! We just pick the most promising one and go!” Bartrand rounds on Gareth, “You have the morning to wrap up any business you might have in the city. We’ll be gone for several weeks, at least. We leave at twelfth bell.”

“Well,” Carver says. “That was easier and quicker than I expected.”

“I didn’t expect that we’d be leaving so soon.”

Varric shrugs, “We’ve been ready to go for weeks, it was just a matter of finding that extra coin and a promising Deep Roads entrance. Plus, most reasonable people don’t want to be on Bartrand’s bad side; he’ll have the expedition ready and waiting to go by then.”

“Guess it’s just a matter of telling Fenris and Anders, then.”

“I’ll tell Anders,” Carver says. “I, ah, want to be able to say goodbye to Merrill. You can get Fenris yourself.”

“Something–”

But before he has the chance to say anything, Carver’s already turned on his heel and is heading back towards Lowtown. Gareth watches him go, confusion bubbling deep within his stomach; he really doesn’t understand his brother sometimes.

“Junior doesn’t approve of your taste in men,” Varric says. “He’s just worried about you. You’re sure about Broody, right? I mean, he’s covered in spikes – like a porcupine. He might have some issues, is what I’m saying. Don’t look at me like that, Hawke, I’m just concerned about a friend.”

“Why does everyone seem to think I’m not capable of handling myself?”

“It’s not that. Neither of us wants to see you get hurt, is all. But you’re sure about Fenris?”

“We’re still getting to know each other. Friendship comes first, whatever… whatever builds from there comes when and if it does. I won’t push for more than he’s willing to give and I’ll content myself with that.”

Varric blinks, “You know what, I’m starting to think that you’re just too perfect, Hawke.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I think that Broody’s one lucky guy.”

Before he leaves to tell Fenris that they’re leaving that day, he pauses at a merchant who waves at him.

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” Gareth says, smiling.

“Bodahn Feddic, purveyor of goods both common and rare, at your service! And this is my son, Sandal, who is as brilliant an enchanter as you’ll ever find! Say hello to the nice human, Sandal.”

“Hello,” Sandal says.

“We shall be accompanying your expedition and providing the needed supplies,” Bodahn explains. “It’s all quite exciting, isn’t it?”

“You aren’t worried about venturing into such a dangerous place?”

“Not with such fine protection!” Bodahn beams, gesturing at Gareth. “But my son and I have never played it safe, never stuck to the tried and true roads! Why, we have returned from adventures while accompanying the Hero of Ferelden herself – legendary Grey Warden and vanquisher of the Blight!”

“You knew the Hero of Ferelden?”

“Not intimately, no,” Bodahn admits. “But we traveled with her across Ferelden as she worked tirelessly to fight the Blight. Quite a lovely lady, very strong, but always polite and willing to listen to an old dwarf’s stories; she was quite fond of Sandal, too. I hear that she’s married to the King of Ferelden now; he’s quite lucky to have her.”

“Everyone who has met her speaks quite highly of her.”

“I imagine they would. She’s an extraordinary woman who accomplished something miraculous! I count myself as being incredibly blessed to have spent even a day within her company.” Bodahn smiles wistfully, in remembrance, then shakes himself from his stupor, “But I digress. It’s been an honour to meet you, messere. I look forward to our voyage together!”

“As do I,” Gareth says.

 

 

 

Leaning against the doorframe of Fenris’ room within the mansion, Gareth quietly watches as the elf goes about packing his bag. He has few possessions, and even fewer things that he needs to pack, thus it does not take him long till he’s ready.

“You’re certain about this, Hawke? The Deep Roads are not a place to be taken lightly.”

Gareth shrugs, “I don’t have much of a choice, do I? It’s the best opportunity that we’ve had since we arrived here. We can’t go on living in Lowtown, someone is eventually going to realize what I am and my family will suffer for knowingly harbouring an apostate.”

“... true,” Fenris pauses, then says, “You know you have little to fear from me. I would not turn you into the templars, Hawke. A mage you may be, but you have yet to prove yourself to be anything other than a man of honour and integrity. I… am grateful that you helped me that day.”

“That means a lot, coming from you,” Gareth smiles. “I’m glad that I helped you then. And you know that you can ask me anything, Fenris. You’re my friend; I’ll help you with anything you need.”

“I have never had a friend before.”

“Consider me your first, then. And I’m certain that Varric considers you one as well; he put you on his tab, didn’t he?”

“If that’s how he shows his friendship, it’s an interesting one.” Fenris bites his lip, then, “You were right, however, Hawke.”

Gareth blinks, “Huh?”

“That I simply could have asked you for help. I realize now that you would have helped me if I had simply asked,” Fenris says. He looks up at him, almost shyly, through his bangs. “You’re unlike anyone I have ever met, Hawke.”

He smiles, softly, as something warm settles and hums low in his belly, “Thank you, Fenris.”

“I meant it, Hawke. You’re welcome.”

“Ready for the Deep Roads?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

 

 

 

The four of them rendezvous in the same square that he first met Bartrand and Varric in. But now, it practically swarms with activity. There are wagons of provisions, people milling about, and the smell of horses is strong. It’s very… nostalgic, reminding Gareth of market days in Lothering.

His heart pangs at the thought. _Bethany_.

He wonders when it will stop hurting so to think of her; when he’ll be able to remember the bright, beautiful girl that she was and not be haunted by the last sight of her, gazing sightlessly into the smoky skies. The chill of her skin against his lips still lingers and she’s left a gaping hole in their family that can’t easily mend itself.

_I miss you, Bethany. You should be here_.

“There you are!” Bartrand snaps, jerking Gareth out of his thoughts. “You ready? It’s going to be a long trek.”

“I’m ready,” Gareth says, glancing over his shoulder at Carver and Anders. “Let’s go.”

“Excellent, we won’t waste anymore time, then.”

There’s a conveniently placed crate, upon which Bartrand climbs up to stand. He clears his throat, and shouts over the noise, “We’ve chosen one of the hidden entrances! The Deep Roads there will be nice and virginal, ready for a good deflowering!”

“Now _there’s_ an interesting image,” Varric mutters.

“It’ll take a week for us to get to the depth we need, and there are bound to be leftover darkspawn from the Blight! Big risk, big rewards!”

“But we shouldn’t take any needless risks,” Gareth adds.

“This isn’t a foolish endeavour!” Bartrand admonishes. “This will work! Now, before we… wait. Who invited the old woman?!”

Peering around Bartrand, Gareth blinks to see his mother standing there.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, ser dwarf, but I need to speak with my children,” Leandra says. “Gareth, Carver… please.”

Carver groans and steps away from the group, “Mother, no. We talked about how important this is.”

Stepping around Bartrand and his crate, Gareth walks up to his mother so that they can have what is going to be a painful conversation in semi-privacy. Carver follows behind him, crossing his arms as he does.

“I just need to know one thing: Are you planning on taking Carver with you?” Leandra asks, point blank.

“Mother, it’s his choice,” Gareth says. “I can’t force him to stay behind if he wants to come.”

“I’m going,” Carver says, with finality. “It’ll be fine.”

“It’s not fine!” Leandra snaps, her voice rising hysterically with each word. “You can’t _both_ go! What if something were to happen to one of you?! I–I can’t bear the thought that either of you might not – Gareth, I can understand you going. But leave Carver here, I beg you!”

“Mother–”

“I said I’m going,” Carver returns, just as harshly. “Besides, if we’re so bloody afraid of templars, I should go and he should hide! I’m going, Mother, and that’s final.”

“Carver, please! I beg of you! Don’t go! Don’t do this!” Leandra begs, clinging to Carver’s arm.

With a small smile, Carver lays a hand over hers, “Don’t worry about me, Mother. I can look after myself, you’ll see. It’ll be fine.”

“Carver!”

He pulls away, rejoining Fenris and Anders, leaving Gareth standing alone with his mother. Opening his mouth to say something more, his mother instead gives him a glare before she storms off; she doesn’t even say goodbye.

_“This is your fault!”_

That feeling of lightness vanishes, something dark and heavy settling low in his gut.

She still blames him for Bethany’s death. This he knows.

And if anything should happen to Carver, it will be on his conscious too.

He watches his mother leave, heart sinking with every step she takes.

“Personal drama over with?” Bartrand interrupts. “Good, then let’s get underway.”

“You alright, Hawke?” Varric asks, when Gareth rejoins them.

He tries for a smile, “It’s fine.”

“She doesn’t blame you, you know,” Carver says quietly. “And… what happened to Bethany, it wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have done anything more. I’ll be fine, Gareth, don’t you worry about me.”

“I know,” he replies. “But you’ll always be my little brother. It’s my job to worry over you. How was Merrill?”

Carver frowns at the sudden change in topic, but says nothing on it. Instead, his cheeks turn a little pink as he speaks, “She’s going to miss us. She said she’d write, but I told her that there wasn’t any point, seeing as the messages would take so long to reach us. Besides which, I don’t know if she’d even remember...”

“Well, at least she’s thinking of you.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Carver sighs, “I told her not to worry about us. But it looks like Isabela is going to look out for her while we’re gone. At least, that’s what she said when I dropped in to ask…”

“It’s good that they’ll have each other. And they have Aveline, too, to keep them out of trouble and watch out for them. Maker knows, that woman needs a hobby...”

“Speaking of Aveline…”

Aveline strides up to them as they make for the gates of Kirkwall, “I thought that I might have missed you. Luckily I didn’t.”

“You came to see us off?”

“I did,” Aveline nods. Then, much to Gareth’s surprise, she pulls him into a tight embrace. “You look after yourself. And Carver too. I expect a full report when you return.”

For a few moments, they stay like that, then she pulls away and gives Carver a hug as well, saying something in his ear that his him scowling, but nodding his head. Aveline smiles at him and ruffles his hair, “That’s a good boy.”

With her hands on her hips, she regards Anders and Fenris, “Now, as for the two of you, watch out for these two, alright? I’m expecting them both back in one piece. Or at least no worse for wear. I’m counting on you both.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Anders says, saluting her.

Fenris nods his head, “You have my word.”

“Excellent,” Aveline smiles. “I’ll be watching for your return. Stay safe – all of you.”

 

 

 

Bartrand wasn’t joking when he said that it would take a week to reach the depth they needed. It takes them two days to reach the Deep Roads entrance that they selected – with several hours spent simply trying to _locate_ it and another few making their way to it – and then five more to traverse the Deep Roads to arrive close to their destination.

Once in the Deep Roads, it becomes less a matter of night and day, and more tired and not-tired. There’s no such thing as night down there, just an endless expanse of tunnels where the only sources of light are the glowing crystals set deep into the walls. Camp is made at a set time – determined by Bartrand, of course – and it’s broken in much the same way.

There’s very little debate, despite his status as partner in the expedition, almost everything is decided by Bartrand, who rarely, if ever, consults his brother or Gareth.

“He’s the eldest, of course he’s used to getting his way,” Varric says with a shrug. “Our parents indulged him growing up, you see. He took after our father and, being head of the family, means he’s rather without a sense of humour.”

“I can understand the weight of responsibility, but you’d think he could at least consult where it concerns us.”

“Nah, that’d be showing weakness. Least I think that’s what Bartrand thinks. You gotta remember, Hawke, he isn’t anything like you. Not all older brothers are shining paragons of compassion.”

“I am not–”

“You’re bonded with a spirit of Compassion,” Anders interrupts. “I think that’s _probably_ the closest everyone could come. You should be proud.”

“You made a pact with–”

“It’s nothing like me and Justice. Or what Merrill’s done,” Anders snaps. “It’s simply that: a bond. It’s why he’s such a potent spirit healer – and I didn’t hear you complaining when he took care of that bruise on your head from last night. Or was it morning? I’ve lost track of the days down here…”

Fenris’ mouth clicks closed and he looks away, colour rising in his cheeks. He says nothing more on the subject, but his hands tighten around his bowl at the topic.

Of course it wouldn’t escape Fenris’ notice that they’re in the company of an abomination. _That_ had been an experience that Gareth would like to never have again; it was bad enough that they didn’t get along before, but now it seems as though there will be no healing or mending the abyss that has yawned its way open between Anders and Fenris.

Much like the one between him and his brother, Gareth doesn’t know what to do. He feels lost.

“It’s so strange,” he comments, trying to break up the tension and change the subject to something safer. The last thing he wants to deal with is yet another fight between the two; they expect him to take sides and are frustrated when he refuses to rise to the bait. “To spend so much time underground. I feel like I’ve forgotten what the sun is like.”

Anders nods, “That’s always what the Deep Roads are like. It’s part of why I hate them.”

“Only part?”

“Well, every time I’ve been in the Deep Roads, it’s been because of Warden business. And nothing good ever comes of that. I could tell horror stories about what I’ve seen down here.” He shudders, “Pray that we’re lucky and we don’t encounter a broodmother – one was enough.”

Gareth frowns, “What’s a broodmother?”

“It’s – well, don’t think too much on it. Just know that they’re the last thing we want to encounter. But we should be able to avoid them.” He taps the side of his head, “I might have left the order, but I’m still good for detecting darkspawn.”

“Yes, at least you have _some_ uses.”

“You–”

“Gentlemen, please,” Varric says. “Not tonight. Let Hawke have one night of peace, at least.”

 

 

 

Unfortunately, things don’t get easier once they reach the depth that they need.

“There’s been a collapse,” a scout reports. “The way forward is blocked.”

“What?!” Bartrand snaps. “Is there some way around?”

The scout takes a step back, voice wavering, “Not that I’ve been able to find. The side passages are too dangerous.”

With a sigh, Bartrand shrugs, then promptly punches the scout in the face.

“Useless! What am I paying you blighters for?! Set camp!”

“Problems, brother?” Varric asks.

“Sodding Deep Roads!” Bartrand snarls. “Who knows how long it’ll take to clear the path? Should’ve known things wouldn’t be so easy…”

“Shall we not try to find a way around, instead? Seems the logical choice.”

“You think I’m an idiot, Varric?! The scouts are all saying that the side passages are too dangerous!”

“We need to do _something_ ,” Gareth says, interrupting the argument that’s about to take place. “Sitting out here in the open is just as dangerous.”

“We’ll take a look,” Varric agrees, with a nod. “If we come running back, screaming, you’ll know that staying put was the right decision.”

“Fine, fine! Find a way around, just do it quickly!”

Anders sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, “This is part of why I left the Wardens. I _hate_ the blighted Deep Roads…”

“Then why come?” Fenris grumbles.

“To help Hawke, of course. I suppose that’s the _only_ thing we’ll agree on.”

“Probably.”

Before they can make their way all of the way through the camp, they’re stopped by a very worried looking Bodahn.

“Err… I hate to add to your burdens, my friends, but I fear that I must,” he says. “I fear my boy, Sandal, wandered off. He’s somewhere in those passages, right now! I beg you, keep an eye out for him. He just… doesn’t understand danger like he should.”

“Don’t worry, Bodahn,” Gareth assures him. “We’ll be searching the side passages; we’ll make sure he comes back safely.”

“Oh, thank you, serah! I can’t believe that he’s done this…”

“We’d better move quickly, then,” Varric says. “If we’re adding a rescue operation to our to do list.”

“Be careful,” Anders warns. “There’s darkspawn in these tunnels. Not many, I don’t think, but there’s a fair amount. We’ll need to take care.”

Gareth nods, “Don’t worry, we’ll be fine.”

“It’s not like we haven’t fought darkspawn before,” Carver shrugs. “What? We did flee the Blight. The darkspawn might have taken our home, but they won’t take us.”

_Bethany_.

“Don’t get cocky,” Anders warns. “I can let you know when we’re approaching them, but you should know: they’ll be able to sense me just as easily. There won’t be any taking of them unawares.”

“Got it.”

Luckily for them, there seems to be fewer darkspawn than Gareth remembers from their desperate flight from Lothering. What they encounter are little more than scouting parties, disorganized bands of darkspawn that call the Deep Roads home.

“Bartrand’s got the right of it,” Anders explains, wiping sweat from his brow. “After the Blight, there’s always fewer darkspawn in the Deep Roads. They’ll never be completely empty, but the mass of the hoard’s likely still on the surface. And, well, after Amaranthine… let’s just say that they’ll likely stay deserted for a while yet.”

“What happened in Amaranthine?” Gareth asks. He’s only heard rumours: the city nearly burned and the Warden keep there was almost completely destroyed, though it’s since began to be rebuilt.

“In-fighting for the most part,” Anders hedges. “I didn’t really understand all the details – that was all left up to Miri and Nathaniel, given that she was the Warden-Commander. There was… a talking darkspawn, calling itself the Architect. It sparked something of a civil war between the darkspawn, that spilled out into the countryside.”

“Civil war?” Carver scoffs. “Between darkspawn?”

Anders shrugs, “Like I said, I didn’t get all the details. I was still a new recruit, then. Mind, so was Nathaniel, but he proved himself. Last I heard, he’d been promoted to Warden-Constable. He’d be her second-in-command, he practically runs the Wardens now since Miri’s queen.”

“Talking darkspawn? Now I’ve heard everything…”

“It’s true. There were… others like him, that he’d recruited or had turned against him,” Anders explains. “But Miri made the right call in the end. You can’t trust darkspawn.”

“The more I hear about her, the more I like her,” Carver remarks. “Too bad I never got to meet her.”

“She’d like you, I’m certain.”

Carver practically beams with the approval.

“We’re not at risk of encountering any of these… talking darkspawn, are we?” Gareth asks.

“There weren’t many of them, so I doubt it,” Anders replies. “We should be fine; I think we can handle them, even if we _do_ come across them, unlikely as that is.”

“Wouldn’t they be more dangerous?”

“Depends. Many of them weren’t particularly clever. And we dealt with the leaders, so they won’t be organized any longer. Like I said, though, we’re not likely to run into any of them – much less one. I wouldn’t worry about that.”

“If you’re certain, then.”

 

 

 

After dealing with yet _another_ band of darkspawn – hurlocks, Anders called them – they stumble across deceased darkspawn. That they didn’t kill.

“Wha–”

“Well,” Varric says. “I’ll be a nug’s uncle. Isn’t that Bodahn’s boy?”

It is, indeed, Sandal standing amongst the dead darkspawn. He’s splattered with blood, but seems unharmed. Nearby, there’s an ogre frozen in place, which makes Gareth’s eyes go wide.

“Hello,” Sandal greets them when they approach, picking their way carefully through the carnage.

“It is!” Carver crows with a laugh. “The great warrior stands victorious!”

“Are you injured? How did you do this?” Gareth asks, giving Sandal a once over with his magic. He’s uninjured, thank the Maker, but that doesn’t explain _how_ he dealt with the darkspawn.

Sandal holds out a rune to him and simply says, “Boom.”

“And how did you do _that_?” Gareth jerks his head towards the ogre, frozen in place and as solid as granite. He can feel the thickness of magic in the air, settling like electricity on his tongue.

“Not enchantment,” Sandal answers.

“Smart boy,” Varric comments. “Think he’ll be safe enough to return to camp?”

“We cleared the way of darkspawn, and I didn’t see any branching paths,” Gareth replies. “Sandal, do you think you could return to camp?”

Sandal says nothing, but nods, and then heads past them to go back down the winding path towards camp and his father.

“Should we let him go alone?” Gareth wonders, biting his lip.

“The dwarven boy will be fine, Hawke,” Fenris assures. “As you yourself said, we cleared the way of darkspawn. If he made it this far on his own, he will be fine to return.”

“I know, I just…”

“You worry, yes. I have noticed. But he will be fine, Hawke.”

“Come on,” Varric says, nudging Gareth’s side. “We still need to find a way past that collapse.”

“... right.”

“We’ve come quite a ways,” Carver comments. “We should find something soon. If we don’t, I think we should head back; try a different passage.”

“What do you–”

He’s interrupted by a loud roar that sends the entire passage rumbling, chips of stone and dust falling through the air.

“You can’t be serious,” Gareth says, fingers going numb. “Is that–”

“A dragon, here?!”

Fenris growls, drawing his blade, “Then we slay it and be on our way.”

“I don’t think it’s as simple as that,” Anders says, softly, as he draws his staff.

 

 

 

“That was reckless,” Fenris admonishes.

Gareth winces, his shoulder is still sore from being dislocated and then forced back into place. He’s wary of using anymore magic to ease the pain. “But it worked.”

“Yes, and it very nearly cost you your life. You need to be more careful, Hawke. One day, that luck of yours will run out.”

“I hate to say it,” Anders says, placing a hand on Gareth’s shoulder which is followed by a pulse of blue-bright magic that eases the residual ache. “But I agree with Fenris. Regardless of whether it worked, you shouldn’t have leapt onto the dragon the way you did.”

“Thank you for the endorsement, mage,” Fenris says, flatly.

Anders shrugs, “You’re welcome.”

“But it worked,” Gareth defends. “And I didn’t see either of you offering up any better solutions.”

“Not all of us have the first instinct of leaping onto the back of a dragon and _stabbing it_ , Hawke,” Anders retorts. “We would have slain it eventually, without your reckless disregard for your own safety.”

“Now, now, Hawke was just doing what he felt was right,” Varric defends. “And we emerged victorious. That’s all that matters. Especially since I’m quite sure that this goes right where we want it to.” He gestures at the stairs and tunnel beyond that the dragon was guarding, “I say we head back to camp, let Bartrand know we found a way around.”

“Alright, sounds good.”

Fenris is still scowling as they return to camp.

“I’m sorry if I made you worry,” Gareth says, quietly. “I… sometimes I act without thinking. It was reckless, I admit that. And I shouldn’t have done it.”

“I wasn’t–” Fenris stops himself, then pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “You are but one man, Hawke. Despite your prodigious talents, you are still mortal. You can still die. Take more care with yourself, or others may think you have a death wish.”

“I’ll try. But old habits are hard to break.” _I’ll try for you_.

“Thank you.”

They return to camp in comfortable silence, the journey back uneventful. Though the passages stink of smoldering darkspawn flesh, courtesy of Anders – a precaution to keep the taint from spreading to the expedition, he burnt the darkspawn corpses.

“Bartrand!” Varric calls out, interrupting his brother’s conversation with one of the expedition’s hirelings. “We found a way around your damned cave-in!”

“It’s about time!” Bartrand turns back to the hireling, “Tell the others: break camp. We’re moving on.”

Breaking camp has become routine, and takes less than an hour to accomplish. Then, they retrace their steps to where they slew the dragon and beyond.

Behind the dragon, through another long, and winding tunnel, they emerge into a large, cavernous space. Veins of lyrium trace their ways up the columns, and Gareth knows that it’s raw lyrium because he can sense it pulse with magic in time to the beat of his heart.

Some of it is tinted red.

“Holy shit,” Bartrand breathes.

Gareth glances at him, “Not what you expected?”

“I thought… an abandoned thaig, something old, but… what _is_ this?”

“How did you know about it?”

Bartrand shrugs, “Old scavengers tales. After the Third Blight. A week below the surface, they said, but nobody believed them…”

“Looks like they were right,” Varric says.

Bartrand doesn’t even glance over his shoulder, instead shouting, “Make camp here! We need to have a look around.”

Five minutes later has Bartrand standing at the base of a staircase, lit with lanterns that glow with a soft blue light. It’s likely lyrium.

“I don’t get it,” he murmurs. “Nothing here makes any sense.”

“Why’s that?” Gareth asks, setting his pack down.

“We’re well below the Deep Roads,” Bartrand explains. “Whatever dwarves lived here, they came long before the First Blight. But where are the statues of Paragons? I don’t recognize these markings on the wall or anything in the rubble.”

Gareth shrugs, “Who knows how old these ruins are? Maybe your people were different back then.”

“I know enough about our history to know we haven’t changed much,” Bartrand scowls. “Dwarves have been mired in tradition for many ages. These dwarves might have been unique, though. If so, I hope they kept their valuables close at hand.”

Bartrand leaves him be, muttering to himself about the price of this and that. He kicks at some of the rubble as he goes, scowling at the walls.

He’s interrupted from going through his pack any further by the arrival of a grateful Bodahn and Sandal.

“You found him!” Bodahn says, shaking Gareth’s hand profusely. There are tears at the corners of his eyes. “I can’t believe it, you found him!”

“Hello,” Sandal says.

“I owe you a great debt. I will repay it somehow – I swear my life on it!”

Gareth smiles, shakes his head, “There’s no need for that. I’m simply happy that Sandal’s alright and unharmed.”

“Because of you!” Bodahn nods, then says gravely, “You will not regret this, you have my word.”

“But–”

“There’s no talking him out of it, Hawke,” Varric advises, as the two of them watch Bodahn and Sandal disappear back into the milling of hirelings. “Lots of people feel they owe you for what you’ve done; don’t let it go to your head.”

“They don’t owe me anything,” Gareth replies. “I don’t need anyone owing me anything.”

“See, that’s what makes you so damn special.”

“Whatever you say, Varric. I’m just one more person, trying to get by and make even a small difference in the world.”

“And that’s what makes you such a great figure to spin a story around,” Varric says, grinning. “Come on now, let’s go grab some dinner. We can have a look around in the morning.”

 

 

 

It’s not so much morning when they get around to exploring the thaig that they’ve found, as it is simply once they’re awake, rested, and have had their share of breakfast. It’s another bowl full of unremarkable porridge that looks and tastes like grey sludge. Though it might not be appetizing, it fills the stomach.

Gareth doesn’t complain, simply eats and listens to the hum of conversation about him.

“There’s bound to be something within the ruins,” Varric says. “Hopefully, it won’t be too difficult to find. Even if nothing here makes sense, we should have enough of an idea to locate where the most valuable pieces might be.”

“So you and Bartrand have said,” Carver mutters, stirring his porridge about his bowl.

“I might be a surfacer through and through,” Varric says. “But I know a little about dwarven history and architecture. Maybe I’m not an expert like Bartrand, but then he’s old enough to remember Orzammar.”

“Where do you think we should start?” Gareth asks.

“Spotted a passage down a little ways. If we’re lucky, it leads to the heart of the thaig. We’ll start there.”

“Sounds good.”

Breakfast is finished quickly, freeing up the five of them to go exploring. Varric leads the way to the passage that he spied on his earlier walk through the ruins, with Gareth and Fenris following close behind.

It’s a good thing that they were, because shortly after they cross the threshold, so to speak, of the narrow, roughly carved passage, they’re set upon by a pack of shades.

“What would shades be doing in a place like this?” Gareth asks, slicing through one.

“Likely, they’re drawn to the lyrium,” Anders replies, sending out a blast of fire from one hand. “It feels… strange down here, with so much of it around. I keep – I sense darkspawn, but… at the same time I don’t. It makes no sense.”

Putting down the last of the shades, Gareth wipes sweat and soot from his brow, “Then we’ll need to be careful. The last thing we need is to walk into a darkspawn ambush.”

“I don’t understand it,” Anders mutters to himself. “Why can I sense them if they’re not here?”

“Perhaps your Warden senses are malfunctioning,” Fenris says, bitingly.

Anders scowls, “You–”

“Think that’s the entrance?” Gareth asks, cutting off the argument before it can begin. He points at a large, heavy-set door that’s set into a carved enclosure in the stone. It all looks rather ominous to him, but that seems to be the theme of dwarven architecture.

“Looks like it,” Varric replies. “Come on, let’s go have a look. See what we find.”

Fenris opens the door with ease, finding the opening mechanism and pushing it open. With it open, they can see the thickness of it and Gareth has to be impressed with Fenris’ strength; he doubts that he could have managed it alone.

Something pricks along his senses.

It reminds him of the hum of the lyrium that’s seemingly all around them, but it’s… different. Something about it feels off – wrong. But he can’t put his finger on what that is.

Anders blinks, then squeezes his eyes closed and reopens them.

Beside him, Carver pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head, “Do you hear that?”

“I don’t hear anything,” Gareth says.

“Probably my imagination, then.”

The room is large, cavernous almost, and stretches upwards, reminding Gareth of the vaulted ceiling of the Chantry in Kirkwall. A set of stairs leads up to what can only be described as an altar. It’s towards that that they make their way towards, wariness seeping into Gareth’s bones that he can’t quite explain.

“You seeing what I’m seeing?” Varric asks.

“Is that… lyrium?” Gareth stares at the strange, twisted idol that lies on the altar. It looks innocuous enough, lying there and humming with the energy that he recognizes as lyrium; it pulses in time to the beat of his heart.

But something about it feels wrong.

It feels… insidious, as though it’s crawling along his senses, trying to worm its way in. Whatever it is, it’s looking for some weakness to exploit, to find a way into his mind.

He hates it, simply by looking at it.

“It’s definitely magic,” Anders murmurs, rubbing his temples. “And not the good kind.”

Fenris rubs his arm, “It feels… wrong.”

“Are you alright?” Gareth asks.

Nodding, Fenris says, “It simply… makes me itch.”

“Doesn’t look like any lyrium I’ve ever seen,” Varric remarks. He turns around, spotting his brother who has apparently followed them into the thaig. “Look at this, Bartrand! An idol made out of pure lyrium, I think. Could be worth a fortune!”

Bartrand whistles, “Not bad, not bad. An excellent find.”

Hesitating, Gareth reaches for the idol. Time seems to slow as he does. His hand closes around it and he picks it up.

There’s a singing in his ears, faint and one that he can’t make out the words to. Anxious to get it out of his hands, he tosses it to Bartrand, who lurks at the bottom of the stairs.

Catching it with ease, Bartrand examines the idol with interest. His eyes darkening as he does.

“We’ll take a look around,” Varric says. “See if there’s anything else further in.”

“You do that,” Bartrand mutters, voice carrying in the echoing space of the room.

What catches Gareth’s attention is the scrape of stone on stone, he whirls around. The door is closing behind Bartrand.

“The door!”

Sliding down the railing, he races for it, heart pounding in his throat. But despite his speed, despite the boost of it that even Fenris is capable of, none of them reach the door in time to catch it before it closes with a loud and resounding thud. There’s a clicking noise, like a lock sliding into place.

Varric pounds both of his fists against the door, “Bartrand! The door’s shut behind you!”

Even through the thickness of it, Bartrand’s voice carries through loud and clear, if slightly muffled. “You always did notice everything, Varric.”

“Are you joking?!” Varric yells. “You’re going to screw over _your own brother_ for a lousy idol?!”

“It’s not just the idol!” Bartrand snaps back. “The location of this thaig alone is worth a fortune and I’m not splitting that three ways! Sorry, _brother_.”

“ _Bartrand!_ _**Bartrand!**_ ”

Varric slams his fists against the door one last time, swearing as he does, “I swear I will find that son of a bitch – sorry, Mother – and kill him!” With a deep breath, followed by a slow sigh, Varric turns around, “Let’s hope there’s a way out of here.”

“There’s bound to be another exit,” Gareth says, trying to be reassuring. “They wouldn’t build something with only one. We’ll find our way out of here, don’t worry.”

“Wish I had your optimism,” Varric mutters. “Sorry about all this. If I’d have known…”

He drops a hand to Varric’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze, “He’s your brother. I understand; no one is angry with you, Varric.”

“Let’s get going, then. We’re gonna need to find our own way back.”

 

 

 

They spend what feels like a small age wandering through the thaig, trying to find their way back out. The place is built like a maze, not helped by the fact that a number of passages and rooms have simply collapsed in on themselves from the lack of maintenance over the many ages that the thaig has lain abandoned.

“How long do you think we’ve been down here?” Carver asks.

“Two days, at least,” Anders replies. He looks exhausted, as does Carver.

“That long, huh?”

“We’ve made some progress,” Gareth says. “But I do hope that we find _something_ soon.”

“Everything about this place is weird. Nothing about it makes any sense,” Varric says. “There’s no logic to it; it’s like the dwarves who built it have almost nothing in common with modern dwarves.”

“Maybe we should stop treating it like it’s modern, then,” Carver says. There are dark circles under his eyes, which have started to look more than a little glassy. Either what food they’ve been able to scavange hasn’t agreed with him, or he’s falling ill.

“If so, where should we start looking?”

“C’mon, follow me,” Varric sighs. “Hopefully, this’ll bring us closer to getting out of here.”

 

 

 

Whether or not it takes them closer to escaping the thaig, Gareth doesn’t know. However, it _does_ bring them into contact with some… very strange creatures.

They look like skeletons that have fused with the rock around them. A crown of flame burns around their heads as they spin boulders as though they weigh nothing at all.

These creatures prove to be a much tougher opponent than the shades that they’ve previously faced.

Strangely, the thaig is relatively free of darkspawn, despite Anders’ insistences that he can sense them.

“Wha-what were those?”

All of them are winded when the battle ends, Carver fetches up against a nearby wall, clenching a hand over his heart.

Gareth frowns, sends a wave of revitalizing magic through him. It’s the least he can do for getting Carver mixed up in all of this.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“You alright?” he asks.

Carver nods, “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

Kicking one of the creatures’ remains with his foot, Fenris scowls, “Whatever they were, they’re dead now. Perhaps again.”

“They’re not rock wraiths,” Varric comments. “Which are _supposed_ to be myths. But maybe something similar? The basis for the myths? Who knows. Guess all that matters is that they’re dead now.”

“We need to keep moving,” Fenris says. “It’s too dangerous for us to stay in one place for long.”

“Fenris is right,” Gareth nods. “We need to keep moving. We don’t have time to be solving mysteries about this place.”

 

 

 

Slaying another band of the strange rock-like creatures, they come face-to-face with one that’s… different.

“Enough. You have proven your mettle,” it intones, in a deep voice that rattles Gareth’s bones. “I would not see these creatures harmed without need.”

Gareth frowns, “You’re the first that hasn’t attacked us outright.”

“They will not assault you further,” it assures them. “Not without my permission.”

“What are these things?” Varric wonders. “They’re like rock wraiths, but… not.”

“They hunger,” the creature states. “The profane have lingered in this place for ages beyond memory, feeding on the magic stones until the need is all they know.”

Gareth blinks, “Lyrium? _That’s_ what sustains them?”

“I am not as they are. I am… a visitor.”

“You’re a demon,” Gareth states, the pieces clicking together. It’s why the creature feels strange – like the Fade, only wrong – and nothing like the other ones that they’ve encountered. It pricks along his senses, something new coming up and blooming inside of him. Anders must be proud of him. “Feeding on their hunger. I can sense it.”

“And I would not see my feast end,” the demon says. “I sense your desire. You seek to leave this place, but you will need my aide to do so.”

“Don’t do it,” Anders warns. “Demons will trip you up every time.”

“Could be a way out of here,” Carver says, shrugging. “I don’t know…”

“What are our options?”

He can feel Fenris’ eyes boring into his back, but his decision is already made.

“We’re not dealing with a demon,” he says simply.

“Most unwise.”

 

 

 

After dealing with the demon, there’s little else of interest.

There’s more of the profane, of course, and a number of shades. Even a golem or two that crumble to life as they pass.

The days that they spend in the thaig begin to blend together, nothing but exploration and fighting and scavenging for what little food they can find.

It’s a miserable existence.

Tempers flare. Anders and Fenris are constantly at each others’ throats; even Varric’s normally even temper is beginning to flare.

And Carver is getting sicker and sicker. His skin is pale and clammy to the touch, but insists he’s fine, that nothing is wrong and that it’s just something he’s eaten that’s not agreeing with him.

Gareth himself is exhausted. Each spell he casts feels like he’s scraping at the bottom of a well that’s gone dry. Pressing the back of his hand to his forehead, he can feel the heat beginning to simmer beneath his skin; he’ll be lucky not to collapse within the next few hours, maybe days, if he’s lucky.

On the fourth day, their luck seems to change.

Takes its own damn time, though.

“The vault!” Varric crows. “This would be – oh. Oh _shit_.”

The creature before them is _huge_. Larger than any of the profane that they’ve encountered yet, and even larger than the hunger demon that they encountered. It towers above them, humming with energy and raw power.

It towers above them, making the entire room tremble.

“Now _that_ is a challenge,” Anders remarks. “Please do not attempt to jump on it, Hawke.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Gareth replies.

No, instead that’s Fenris, who leaps through the air and plunges his blade deeply into the heart of it.

The creatures roars, reeling backwards, and crashes into one of the columns that support the roof. Luckily for Fenris, he yanked his blade free and flung himself to the side before it could crush him against the stone.

Gareth launches spirit bolt after spirit bolt, shoring up his companions whenever he can spare the energy and ignoring the burn that’s begun to settle beneath his skin. Judging by Anders’ flushed expression, he’s in much the same straights. It’s been four days of nothing but near straight magic use from the both of them, keeping them going when they should have rested.

They can’t keep this up for much longer.

But their luck begins to change.

Carver cleaves one of the creature’s legs clear off, while Fenris takes care of the other. It collapses to the ground, shuddering, and Gareth is able to tear it apart with one well-placed casting of a spell Merrill taught him – living bomb.

All of them hit the ground when it detonates, rock flying everywhere and embedding shards of it in the walls.

Varric’s the first one to climb back to his feet, eyes wide, “The rock wraiths are supposed to be dwarven legends! They’re not even supposed to be real!”

“Looked pretty real to me,” Gareth comments, pushing himself up and dusting off his hands on his thighs.

“I guess it doesn’t matter,” Varric says, strolling past the rock wraith’s crumbled form. “Look at this! Come see what it was guarding!”

Turns out, Varric’s right. Beyond where they fought the rock wraith, there’s a small alcove that’s practically stuffed to the brim with treasure. The precious metals stashed here catch the faint light of the crystals overhead, throwing off a sparkling glow upon them as they stare at it.

“Well, looks like this wasn’t a complete waste of time,” Varric comments. “Take what we can carry and let’s hope we find a way out of here soon.”

“Let’s see if there’s something that can help us get out of here,” Gareth adds. “That should be our main focus right now.”

“Varric has a point, though. We came down here to get rich,” Carver says. “We should take what we can carry.”

Luckily, they still have their packs, which by now are mostly empty. It’s while they’re filling them up that Gareth finds a heavy, iron key tucked amongst a pile of ancient dwarven gold coins.

“Look,” he says, holding it up.

“A key?” Varric blinks. “Let’s hope one that unlocks something.”

Gareth eyes the nearby door, with its heavy iron lock and bands wrapped around it. If it’s anything like the other doors that they’ve encountered, then it’s likely just as weighty and locked tight. Hopefully, they’ll be lucky enough that the key he’s just found opens the lock, but Gareth doesn’t think that’s likely. Not after the last few days they’ve had.

“Think it opens that door?” he asks.

“It’s worth trying,” Anders replies.

“The sooner we’re rid of this place, the better.”

“I agree with Broody on that. We need to get out of here; only so long a dwarf can subside on nug and deep mushrooms.”

With their packs weighed down with treasure, everyone groups themselves behind Gareth as he slides the heavy iron key into the door’s lock.

It clicks into place. Turns easily.

Anders and Carver both help him pull it open, revealing a long stretch of darkened tunnel beyond.

“Looks like we found a way out,” Varric comments. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here.”

 

 

 

Two more days pass, before it feels like they’re making any progress. By then, the Deep Roads begin to look somewhat… familiar. Well, less like the strange thaig that they’ve left behind them.

“This looks… familiar,” Gareth comments.

“We’re back where we started and only in, what? Six days? Not bad, eh?”

Carver sways on his feet, pressing a hand to his forehead, “Think we could… take a break? I feel… wrong.”

“Let’s make camp if you’re sick.”

Varric snorts, “I’ll wager it was those deep mushrooms we found.”

“No, it’s…”

“Carver!”

Carver’s legs collapse under him and Gareth lunges to reach him in time. He catches his brother under the arms, staggering under the weight of him and his great sword. The two of them go down, the wind knocked from Gareth’s lungs by the sheer force of his little brother’s weight atop him.

Immediately, Fenris and Anders are there, lifting Carver off of him and laying him on the ground nearby.

Fenris helps him up from the ground and Gareth scrambles to his brother, laying his head in his lap.

His face is pale, clammy, and he feels cold. Gareth’s heart skips a beat before leaping into his throat when he spots the tell-tale signs of black veins at Carver’s neck. _No_. _It can’t be_...

“It’s the blight, I can sense it,” Anders confirms, kneeling down beside Carver.

When Carver looks up at him, his eyes glassy and clouded, Gareth knows that there’s no denying it and his heart aches within his chest.

_It’s all his fault_.

“Just like that templar, Wesley,” Carver says. “I’ll be just as dead, just as gone.”

Cupping his brother’s head between his hands, Gareth presses his forehead to Carver’s, ignoring the clammy chill that clings to his skin. He looks to Anders, voice thick with desperation, “There _must_ be something we can do!”

Carver shakes his head, “I’m not going to make it. Not to the surface, not to anywhere. It’s… been getting worse.”

There’s a long pause, then Anders says, “There might be something we can do.”

“What?!”

“I stole the maps from a Warden that had come to Kirkwall,” Anders explains, words beginning to rush together as he speaks. “I wanted to know if he was looking for me. He wasn’t. The maps were for planning their own expedition into the Deep Roads.”

His heart halts, then leaps up into his throat to beat a heavy, fast tattoo against his adam’s apple.

“Does that mean that the Grey Wardens are _here_?”

“ _If_ the Wardens are here, I know where,” Anders confirms, with a nod of his head. “We could bring Carver to them.”

“And what? Become a Grey Warden?” Carver asks, rolling towards Anders. His arms shake as he tries to push himself upright, but Gareth holds him down by his shoulders. It’s a testament to how weak Carver’s become that he can hold him down with ease.

“If there’s even a _chance_ ,” Gareth says. “Then we need to take it. I won’t lose you, too.”

“Then I hope I’m right.”

 

 

 

They make camp long enough for Carver to rest and regain some of his strength. It also gives them time to talk.

“Maybe this’ll be a good thing,” Carver says. “I’ll finally be out of your damned shadow.”

Running his hand through Carver’s hair, the way he used to when he was small and needed comforting, Gareth sighs, “Is that really how you feel, Carver?”

“There’s no way I’d ever be able to get out from under it in Kirkwall. I couldn’t join the guard. Thought about the templars, but that’d just be a betrayal, wouldn’t it? You’re just so… you. I could never measure up.”

“I’m nothing special, Carver. You’re your own man and always have been.”

“See?” Carver says, poking his brother’s cheek. “There you go again. You’re _too_ good. There’s no way I could ever be like you. I was wrong, y’know.”

“About what?”

“Fenris. And you. Without me, you’ll need someone to look out for you. You’re always getting into trouble or finding trouble. And you never think twice before leaping straight in – without looking.”

“I don’t need a babysitter, Carver.”

“Sometimes, I think you do. Fenris’ll keep you out of trouble, or make sure that you don’t get hurt. I’m gonna be a good brother and trust that he’ll look after you. Where I couldn’t.”

“You’re talking like we’re never going to see each other again.”

“Wardens live pretty isolated lives. Dunno if I’d have room for a family. You’ll tell Merrill, won’t you? Maybe she’ll write to me. And Aveline, she’ll need to know too. Maker, she’ll be so furious with me, you know.”

“You won’t have to worry about that.” _I will_.

“She won’t be mad at you. I don’t think she ever could; you’re too _nice_.” Carver blinks, then, “Mother is going to be heartbroken. You’ll look after her, won’t you? Get back our old house? She’d like that.”

“Of course. I’ll reclaim the old Amell estate,” Gareth promises. “You can come visit us there, when you’re able.”

“That would be nice,” Carver mumbles, eyes drifting closed. “I never blamed you, y’know. Not for Bethany. Not for this. You did everything you could, but you’re always blaming yourself. It’s okay, you can let go now.”

His voice chokes in his throat. He can’t think of anything to say to that.

With burning eyes, he presses a kiss to his brother’s head and makes another promise.

 

 

 

Anders leads them through the winding tunnels, following something that only he can sense. He stops at one point, “Hmmm.”

“Something wrong?” Gareth asks, from the rear where he’s supporting Carver. He’s been relegated to full support now, while Anders fills in for him on the front lines with Varric and Fenris. Luckily, there have been few darkspawn thus far.

“I think they’re nearby,” Anders says. “Or… it could be darkspawn.”

As it turns out, it’s both.

Slaughtering their way through the darkspawn, they come face-to-face with a small contingent of Wardens, lead by a man with an impressive moustache.

“Anders,” he says simply.

“Fancy meeting you here, Stroud,” Anders replies lightly, returning his staff to his back.

“I could say the same. Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

“That’s the rumour,” Anders quips. Then, he turns serious, “But I didn’t come here to swap stories with you.”

Gareth steps forward, supporting Carver.

“You… mean the boy as a recruit, of course you do.” Stroud shakes his head, then addresses Gareth, “I’m sorry. I know this comes as no comfort to you, but we do not recruit Grey Wardens out of pity. It is no kindness.”

Gareth scowls, “If Carver dies, then so do you. Trust me on that.”

Blinking, Stroud stares at him as though he’s just grown a second head. “You truly think _that_ will help?”

“Trust me, Stroud,” Anders says, stepping in to defuse the situation. “This one is worth your time. With the Blight over, you Wardens don’t have recruits exactly lining up to volunteer.”

“This is no simple thing, Anders. This may be as much of a death sentence as the sickness and you know it.”

Anders flinches, but continues anyway, “He’ll die anyway. Take him and try… I’m asking you.”

With a sigh, Stroud nods, “Very well. If the boy comes, he comes now. And you may not see him again. Being a Grey Warden is not a cure, it is a calling.”

“You’re sure about this?” Carver asks, sounding too much like the frightened little boy that Gareth remembers from years gone by.

He smiles, trying to be reassuring, “If it’s the only way to save you, then yes. I just… wish it hadn’t worked out this way.”

“You’ll have to be strong. For Mother,” Carver says. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

One of the Wardens steps forward, taking Carver from Gareth’s arms. Before he pulls him away, though, Gareth seizes his head and presses their foreheads together, “I’ll take care of Mother, I promise. You take care of yourself. And come back to us, you hear me?”

Carver smiles weakly, “I promise. Goodbye, brother.”

They pull apart and Gareth watches as his brother disappears into the Deep Roads with the Wardens, his heart sinking lower and lower in his chest until they’re out of sight. He’s not sure how long he stands there, staring after them, but he’s jolted out of his reverie by a hand on his shoulder.

Fenris looks at him, green eyes soft and remarkably open, “I am sorry about your brother, Hawke.”

“So am I,” Gareth murmurs, gently placing his hand over Fenris’ and squeezing. “I’m going to miss him.”

“He’s a brave young man,” Fenris continues. “If anyone would make a good Grey Warden, it would be him. You will see him again, Hawke. Of that I’m sure.”

“Thank you, Fenris.”

 

 

 

The return to Kirkwall comes with no fanfare. They simply re-enter the city, dirty, smelling of the Deep Roads and burnt darkspawn, with hunger gnawing at their bellies. There’s no one to greet them when they arrive.

“Home sweet home. Finally,” Varric says, hands on his hips. “I wonder if Bartrand came back to the city. You think I’d be that lucky?”

There’s an emptiness within Gareth that can’t be easily filled. He simply stares at Varric and says, voice quiet, “Revenge isn’t exactly the most pressing thing on my mind right now.”

“I know,” Varric replies, softly. “I’m… I’m sorry about your brother.”

“He’ll make it,” Anders assures them. “Carver is stronger than he thinks. He’ll do well as a Warden, I’m certain of it.”

“I should have seen Bartrand’s betrayal coming. I’ll find that maggot if it’s the last thing I do!” Then his voice turns soft, and he looks at Gareth sadly, “I… imagine you’ll be heading home... tell the family?”

Gareth looks down to his feet, staring at his dust-coated boots, “I don’t have much choice.”

“It wasn’t all for nothing,” Varric says, trying to be reassuring. “You’ll be a wealthy man, Hawke.”

He knows that. But the knowledge of it tastes like ashes in his mouth. He would trade all of it to have Carver with him, at his side.

 

 

 

The small apartment looks exactly as it was the morning that he left it for the last time.

His mother rushes towards him, throws her arms tightly around his neck and sobs.

“Oh, my baby!” she cries. “You made it home!”

Numbly, Gareth wraps his arms around his mother, holds her tightly. He doesn’t want to let go of her, fears what she’ll say, how she’ll react when she learns…

“Carver isn’t with you?” She pulls away, glancing around him as though Carver is simply hiding.

He shakes his head.

“Is he… coming back?” Her voice cracks on the words.

“I don’t know,” Gareth murmurs. The words are heavy on his tongue as he adds, “He’s gone to join the Wardens.”

Leandra’s knees give out under her and she collapses to the floor, the only thing keeping her from meeting it painfully being Gareth’s arms around her. She clings to her remaining child as she weeps, her hands fisted in his coat and all Gareth can do is hold her tightly as she weeps.

Slowly, Gamlen approaches and kneels down beside them, wrapping a comforting arm about Leandra’s shoulders and placing a hand on Gareth’s.

They’re all they have now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END ACT 1.
> 
> And... that's it for the first act, folks! I cannot believe I actually made it this far and still have more to go. Hot damn, I've done well for myself and massive kudos to those of you who have stuck with me this far, I know that it's quite the journey.


	10. and wait another night (interlude)

Aveline finds him slumped over a table in the back of the Hanged Man, tilting his tankard back and forth, watching the amber liquid slosh about. Even though he’s aware of her approach, he doesn’t turn to greet her or invite her to pull up a seat. This, despite the fact that he knew she’d come find him eventually.

Frankly, he wishes that she would just leave him alone. Let him drown himself in his misery.

Because it’s all his fault.

“I heard about Carver,” Aveline says softly, pulling a seat up across from him. “Gareth, I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t look at her, simply continues to stare at the liquid in his tankard.

When he speaks, the words stick to his tongue and mouth, clicking against his teeth, “I shouldn’t have brought him with me.”

“You couldn’t have known what would happen, Gareth,” she says, laying a hand over his, stilling the constant motion. “And he would have resented you more for leaving him behind.”

“But he’d be _safe_. That would be all that mattered; he can hate me if he wants, but at least he’d be alive and well, not...”

“Carver will survive; he’s a tough, strong lad,” Aveline says. She squeezes his hand, “He’ll survive, Gareth. I know he will.”

“But we _don’t_ know.”

“No,” her voice is soft. “We don’t. We can only have faith that he will.”

He swallows around the lump in his throat, ignores the burn in his eyes, “She blames me, you know.”

“Your mother? Gareth–”

“When Bethany died, it was my fault. I could’ve done something – anything – and I would have. With Carver, it’s the same. Because I wasn’t strong enough to tell him no.”

Aveline squeezes his hand, “Gareth, you are one of the strongest people I know. It’s not your fault – not Bethany, not Carver. We can’t control what happens to those around us, we can only be there to help them with the aftermath. And your mother doesn’t blame you, I know that much for certain.”

His shoulders hitch in time with his breathing. Letting go of the tankard, he cups his head in his hands and weeps.

Shifting her chair, Aveline wraps an arm around his shoulders and holds him tightly, “It’s going to be alright, Gareth. It’s going to be alright…”

Gareth doesn’t believe her then, because it feels like Bethany’s death all over again. Carver’s gone and it’s his fault; his mother’s heartbreak is, once again, laid at his feet. He couldn’t keep his promise to their father _again_ nor the one he made to Bethany. He failed. Again.

He hiccups, breath catching in his throat, “I’m sorry, Aveline…”

“It’s not your fault,” she murmurs, rubbing soothing circles into his back. “You can’t keep going like this, Gareth. It’s alright to let it out. I’m here for you, I’m here.”

Turning, he weeps into her shoulder, clinging to her as though he’s little more than a small child.

He certainly feels like one.

 

 

 

_We can only have faith_.

Gareth’s never given much thought to the Maker or the Chantry. Certainly, he believes in the Maker, but the Chantry, well, it’s never held much appeal to him. He’d attended Chantry services faithfully with his family for years – a tradition that’s continued even after moving to Kirkwall.

But he feels oddly detached from the entire thing. There’s some higher power at work, that has some grand plan for them all, but he often finds himself doubting that the Maker he believes in is the same one that the Chantry preaches about.

There is no place for those like him in the world the Chantry preaches of.

Still, he has little left to go on but faith.

Bethany’s faith had always been the strongest out of the three of them. She hung on every word of the Revered Mother’s sermons, begged stories from Sister Leliana. And would then faithfully recite them to the rest of the family, be it over dinner or in front of a roaring fire. Her passion had made them come to life, roused something in Gareth that he knows well.

He had wanted, above all else, to protect his sister’s faith.

And now, two years later, he comes to find himself in another Chantry, praying to the Maker, because it’s all he has left to him.

He sits alone, in the rear of the grand cathedral, staring up at the statues of Andraste. At times, he bows his head, silently praying to a Maker only he believes in that his brother will be safe – that he has survived the death sentence that is the taint.

_A death sentence you brought upon him_ , a dark voice whispers. _It’s all your fault_.

“Serah Hawke.”

He glances up, recognizing the red hair and clear blue eyes.

“Ah, Sebastian, right?” He clears his throat, voice sounding rougher than it should.

With a soft smile, Sebastian inclines his head, “That I am. I’m glad that you remember me, I had thought – but it doesn’t matter.”

Gareth sits up a little straighter, hopes that his eyes don’t shine too much and give him away. “Of course I didn’t forget you.”

“May I sit with you?” Sebastian asks.

Hesitantly, Gareth nods.

Sebastian takes the seat next to him, but doesn’t crowd him. Rather, he respectfully folds his hands in his lap and looks up at the banner of the blazing sun ahead of them that hangs from the pulpit. “You’ve been in here quite a lot as of recently, serah. Does something trouble you?”

“Surely you have more important things to do than listen to the woes of a Fereldan refugee,” Gareth says.

“We are all the Maker’s children,” Sebastian replies. “And so, we must help each other if we can. If it will ease whatever burden you carry, then I will listen.” He looks at Gareth, an honest smile on his face and his accent rolls the syllables as he speaks, “I’m allowed to hear confession. Anything you say to me will be held in complete confidence. I shall not judge you.”

Gareth looks down at his hands, flexes them, and wonders.

“I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“You can begin wherever you like,” Sebastian says softly. “Or you can say nothing at all. I will not force you, Hawke. But I am here – if you have need of me.”

“... thank you,” Gareth whispers.


	11. you are my reason to stay

_**Three years later…** _

When the summons arrives from the viscount, Gareth’s a little surprised. True, he’s made a name for himself in the three years since the Deep Roads expedition, but he hadn’t thought it would put him on the radar of the truly important people in the city. Certainly, he hadn’t thought that the viscount himself would be calling on him.

Though it puts him at further risk for outing himself as an apostate, Gareth knows that to ignore the summons would be stupid. There are worse things, he thinks, than to have the gratitude of Kirkwall’s viscount.

It's with that in mind that he makes his way to the Keep.

When he arrives, it's to find the door to the viscount's office already open. Even though he doubts it's for his ears, he does catch the end of the conversation that the viscount is having with his seneschal, Bran.

"The compound was never meant to be permanent," Bran says. "There are concerns that the Qunari influence is... _no longer contained_."

As though he can sense Gareth's presence there, Bran looks up. His face hardens into an expression of what seems, to Gareth at least, as mild distaste – but it quickly smooths itself out into the typical bland look of disinterest he always seems to wear. Gareth's not entirely sure what he's done to put himself on the man's bad side, but he takes it in stride as best he can.

On the other hand, there's Viscount Dumar. The man looks exhausted. There are circles under his eyes and his face is more tired and drawn than Gareth remembers it being from the last time they met briefly several years previous. Clearly, the stress of the job is beginning to show itself.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Dumar lets out a heavy sigh, "Was it ever? Kirkwall has tension enough between templar and mage, but these Qunari... they sit like gargoyles, waiting for Makes-knows-what, and everyone goes mad around them." Dumar plants his hands on his desk, "Nearly four years I have stood between fanatics. And now _this_."

Gareth clears his throat, "You sent for me?"

"Leave us," Dumar says to Bran, sounding more tired than he does forceful.

Nonetheless, Bran inclines his head to him. As he leaves, he gives Gareth one more disdainful look, before he closes the doors firmly behind him with a final sounding thud.

That leaves Gareth alone with Dumar. And one very important looking piece of parchment.

"Meredith at my throat, Orsino at my heels, and a city scared of heretical giants," Dumar muses. "Balance has held because the Qunari ask for nothing. Even the space in Lowtown was a 'gift' meant to contain them." He regards Gareth with a keenly sharp look, "But now the Arishok has asked for you. _By name_. What did you do?"

Caught off guard, it's all Gareth can do to blink in confusion. It takes him a few moments to gather his scattered thoughts.

"I caught his attention a few times when our paths crossed. I suppose I must have impressed him, but that was years ago."

"That makes sense," Dumar says, with another heavy sigh. "And it doesn't matter. I just need them quiet."

There's something... odd in the way that Dumar looks at him after that. It disappears as soon as Gareth thinks he sees it, in favour of the tired look that seems to be his default expression. He continues on, saying, "You helped my son and for that, I am grateful, but it seems you are meant to have influence above your station."

Gareth bites the inside of his cheek. This was _exactly_ what he was supposed to be avoiding. Too late now.

"Speak with the Arishok. Give him what he needs to keep the peace. Can you do that for Kirkwall, Serah Hawke?"

"Of course. I'm always willing to help," Gareth replies, inclining his head.

The ghost of a smile presents itself upon Dumar's face, yet it fades as quickly as it appears. "Now _that_ is an attitude that this city has lacked for a long time. Appease the Arishok, take his demand and let him return to dormancy. As awkward as this has been, it's far better than the alternative."

"Then I'll take my leave of you and see that the matter is dealt with," Gareth says, bowing to the viscount.

"Thank you, serah. Your assistance is much appreciated."

It's as clear a dismissal as Gareth is likely to get. He leaves the viscount's office, closing the door behind him, and is, frankly, unsurprised that Bran is nowhere to be seen when he turns around. At the exit from the viscount's public chambers, he hesitates for a brief moment. Then, he decides that yes, visiting Aveline is a good idea.

She may have an idea of why the Arishok would call on him. And, if not, then her assistance in the matter would be invaluable.

Unsurprisingly, Aveline is in her office in the barracks – a place that she's found herself in more and more as time has passed. Given that she likely lives in the room now, Gareth wouldn't be shocked if he peered behind her desk and found a cot there. She'll likely jump at the chance to get involved with whatever business that the Arishok has called upon him for.

However, when he arrives, it's to find that Aveline is not alone at her desk, trying to fight the good fight one report at a time. A guard stands across from her desk, looking vaguely uncomfortable at being the sole beneficiary of Aveline's hard stare.

"We'll need to give them answers by tomorrow, captain," he says.

Aveline spares Gareth a quick glance to where he leans against her door frame before turning her full attention back to the guardsman before her.

"I'll have them. Dismissed."

"But–"

" _Dismissed_."

The guard's jaw snaps closed with an audible click and he nods. On his hurried way out of Aveline's office, he gives Gareth a _very_ dirty look.

Sighing, Aveline leans against her desk, "You'd think that the captain of the guard could requisition a templar or two, but no, _that_ would be _demeaning_. Can't have them working for the people when eternity needs a nanny."

"You knew this was going to be difficult," Gareth says, smiling a little as he pushes away from the doorframe to join her.

"It's not the challenge, it's the unending part," Aveline says, hitching her hip higher on her desk. "And really, I blame you. You poured money into a pot that was already full. Everything has shifted. Good job validating the fears of every anti-Fereldan in Kirkwall."

He blinks, "I hadn't realized that I was making it harder for you by trying to get ahead."

"I'm just harassing you," Aveline admits, after a pause, with one of her rare, warm smiles. "Although you are rather like the centre of a hurricane. You've changed the fortunes of a lot of people. Not always for the better."

"Oh come now," Gareth says, gently nudging her with his elbow. "You're enjoying every moment of this."

"They'd have to drag me out of here. Though... I haven't had much time to follow you around as of late. Not that I really need to. I can trust that _you_ , at least, try to do right."

"Thanks, Aveline."

"You're welcome." There's a long pause, before she asks softly, "Has there been any word from Carver?"

He stares down at the floor, scuffing his boot against the tiles. It takes him time to answer, the words seeming to stick in his throat, "He wrote to let us know that he was alive – that he survived and joined the Wardens officially. Merrill hears from him more than we do and she... she thinks he sounds happy."

"I won't pretend to understand the dynamics of siblings," Aveline says, wrapping an arm around Gareth's shoulders and tugging him into an embrace. "But perhaps this distance will do you both some good. Carver needs time to learn and grow – let him become a man without you worrying over him." 

"But–"

"Oh hush. Carver is grown and more than capable of looking after himself. The Wardens are honourable folk; they’ll do right by him." She hesitates, then adds, "And he loves you, Gareth. Never forget that."

"I know, but..." He isn't sure he can bring voice to the doubts, the fears, the pain that's been eating at him for three years. But this is Aveline. If anyone could understand, it would be her. "After everything we've been through, I had hoped... I had thought... we deserved a little bit of peace. And Carver should be here to enjoy it. Not out hunting darkspawn."

"It wasn't your fault, Gareth," Aveline says, squeezing him tightly. "Carver might not have forgiven you for leaving him behind. As you said yourself, there was no stopping him from coming. You're not the Maker, Gareth. Unfortunately, you can't save everyone."

He swallows the lump in his throat, blinks back the burning behind his eyes. "He's my brother, Aveline. I had – _have_ to try."

"I know." Aveline gently bumps her head against his. "I know."

The two of them stay like that for some time. Simply taking comfort in the peace of each other's presence.

It ends eventually, of course.

"Now," Aveline says, voice turning firm. "What brings you to my door?"

"The Arishok sent a summons to the viscount. For me. By name."

Aveline blinks, drawing back to stare at Gareth, "He did?"

"Yes."

"Strange." Aveline crosses her arms, looking deep in thought. "I've had no word of any disturbances in the Qunari compound or its surroundings. Well, nothing out of the ordinary, at least. What could he want?"

"I don't know. I'm going to find out. And I would like for you to be there with me."

Aveline waves her hand dismissively, "Of course I'll be there. Someone has to keep you out of trouble."

"Aveline."

"Don't deny it, Gareth. You're always finding trouble. And when you're not, it finds you."

"I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult..."

Aveline ignores him, "Bring Fenris. He's had some dealings with the Qunari before and I trust him at my back in a fight. We'll need him if things don't go peacefully."

He very nearly rolls his eyes, "This is Kirkwall. And the Qunari are involved. Things are never 'peaceful'."

"You have a point. Which is precisely why I want Fenris there. Perhaps Varric. If he can keep his mouth shut long enough. I swear, the man will start a war one day with those words of his..."

He ignores the jab at Varric.

"Alright, alright. I get it. Bring Varric and Fenris."

He's on his way out when Aveline calls out to him, "Oh, and Gareth?"

"Yes?"

"Do try not to make a fool out of yourself."

Gareth knows _exactly_ what Aveline meant by those words of his. For although he and Fenris have grown closer as friends over the years, they've never managed to move past that phase. The two of them have slipped into a dance; neither willing to make the first move, afraid of how the other might react, fearful of losing the friendship they've so carefully created.

However, that hasn't stopped Gareth from making a complete fool out of himself on occasion. At least Carver is no longer around to see what an idiot in love his brother really is.

But Gareth doesn't know what to do. His parents aren't exactly a great example to follow. Besides which, he only _just_ got their family home back; he can't exactly go running off to get married. His mother would never forgive him. Kirkwall is as much a home as anything will ever be. He can't return to Ferelden. There are too many memories there. Not all of them... pleasant.

He avoids thinking of Bethany.

Even now, the memory of her tears at him. He's still plagued by the thought that _he could have saved her_.

He still has nightmares of their escape from Lothering. Joined now by a plague of darkspawn taking Carver from them. Rare though they are now, he still awakes some nights in a cold sweat, cheeks wet, and a name upon his lips.

Gareth tries not to think too much about it. If he lingers, then others will notice. His mother has only just regained herself after Carver's loss. He can't afford to make her worry over him now. He's the head of their family; he has to be strong, for her, and for Carver. He needs to make them proud.

Walking the familiar paths through Hightown towards Fenris' mansion, he takes several deep breaths, trying to clear his head of such dark thoughts. But they're always there, waiting for the opportune moment to strike, to remind him that he's not as strong as people believe he is.

By the time he arrives at the mansion, he's regained his composure. But when he enters and makes his way up the winding, grand staircase, it's to find that he isn't the only one who has chosen to pay Fenris a visit.

"Why you want to squat up here in Hightown is beyond me."

Isabela.

He's just crested the stairs when she says that. Isabela's leaning against the doorframe to Fenris' room and, beyond her, he can see Fenris – who spots him instantly, his attention sliding from Isabela to Gareth.

"I like the view," he quips.

"So do I." Her voice is undeniably flirtatious, even to Gareth's inexperienced mind.

There's an odd bitterness in his mouth. It takes Gareth a moment to realize what it is. _Jealousy_.

He crushes it. There's no reason to be jealous of Isabela. Absolutely none.

_Maybe Fenris would prefer her_.

Shoving the thought aside, he's just in time to catch Isabela sauntering past him, saying, "Maybe _you_ can get a little more out of him, Hawke. Find out what makes him... _tick_."

"I – what?"

"Hawke, come in!"

Fenris immediately goes to sweep aside a collection of bottles from the centre of the table – the only one that still has four legs – and rubs at a particularly stubborn wine stain with his thumb. There's a flush of pink high in his cheeks, "I hadn't thought to expect you."

"You don't need to make a fuss, Fenris," Gareth says, catching one bottle before it can crash to the floor and shatter. "It's alright; it's just me."

"I – yes." Fenris bites his lip, dipping his head to stare at his feet, which he rocks back and forth on. He glances at his feet, then towards the fire, and, eventually says, after a long length of awkward time, "What... do you do when you stop running?"

Gareth glances down at his own feet, mulling over the question. "Honestly, I... I don't know. I've spent most of my life running. From templars, from the Blight. I suppose that you start living. Start over. Is that what you want, Fenris?"

"... I don't know how," Fenris admits softly. "My first memory is receiving these markings; the lyrium being branded into my flesh. The agony... wiped away everything." He glances up at Gareth, almost pleadingly, "Whatever life I had before I became a slave... it's lost."

There's not much to say to that, so Gareth remains silent.

Fenris heaves a sigh, straightening himself and crossing his arms. Though it seems more like he's holding himself than anything. "But I shouldn't trouble you with this. My problems are my own, not yours."

"I might be able to help you with your problems," Gareth says, smiling softly. "Or give you a few more."

"Only a few?" Fenris says, chuckling. It's low and deep, sending shivers down Gareth's spine.

"The good kind."

He's unable to look away from Fenris' face, from the smile there. It's absolutely breathtaking and Gareth can feel his heart hammering away against the inside of his throat; only able to think that it's a miracle that Fenris can't hear it with how loud its beat is.

"Tempting," Fenris breathes, rolling onto the balls of his feet with a catlike grace. He leans into Gareth's space a little too much, their mouths nearly touching, and his breath is hot and damp against Gareth's lips.

Gareth swallows down the lump in his throat.

"You're a handsome man, Hawke," Fenris continues. "Is there no one else who has your... _attention_?"

His cheeks must be redder than the tomatoes he sees in the market.

"Do you see anyone else here?"

Fenris' eyebrows go up and he leans back on his heels, "I'm an escaped slave _and_ an elf, living in a borrowed mansion. None of those things bother you?"

"Should they?" Gareth asks, blinking.

"Clearly, you are not 'most people'," Fenris snorts. He glances away, to the side, then peeks shyly back at Gareth. "Still you... raise an interesting point. I'll have to... consider it."

It feels like they're on the edge of a precipice. They're about to tip off and Gareth's not sure where they'll land. If they'll land.

Fenris is leaning in again, though, his breath warm on Gareth's face and Gareth's lips part on a sharp inhale. Immediately, Fenris' gaze focuses on his mouth.

Everything goes very still. Gareth doesn't dare to breathe.

Very slowly, almost painfully so, Fenris leans in and Gareth's eyes drift closed as he does.

It can hardly be described as a kiss. It's a simple brush of lips, but it's more than enough to take Gareth's breath away. There's a pause, a hesitancy, then Fenris kisses him _hard_.

Gareth stumbles back, comes up against the table and grabs hold of the edge of it to keep himself upright. Against his, Fenris' lips are warm and firm, and Gareth gasps when Fenris nips at his bottom lip – which seems to be what Fenris wants, for his tongue slips into Gareth's mouth.

He isn't sure what to do, what's expected of him, and so he follows Fenris' lead.

It seems like too soon and far too long when Fenris pulls away. He's breathing heavier than he was earlier, but Gareth is panting, cracking his eyes open and Fenris' face is unreadable.

Biting his lower lip, Gareth says quietly, "Please tell me you don't regret that."

"No."

"It wasn't a mistake?"

"No."

Gently, as though he's afraid that he might break him, Fenris cups Gareth's face between his hands, "I... am unsure of where this might go. You are unlike anyone I have ever met, Hawke."

"Gareth," he breathes. "If... if this is what you want, then please."

Fenris cocks his head to the side, "Gareth."

It sends a shiver down his spine, the way that Fenris says his name. This is has been haunting his dreams for _years_ and to hear it finally said is... _thrilling_.

"Where do we go from here?" Gareth asks, laying his hands over Fenris' and squeezing them gently.

"I don't know," Fenris admits. "Do you?"

"No. But I want to know." He tilts his head, kisses the palm of Fenris' hand, "Why don't we find out together?"

"That sounds... nice. Yes, let's do that." Fenris hesitates, then leans in to brush another kiss against Gareth's lips. "Now, I do have one last question for you, Ha – Gareth."

He feels unsteady, like the ground has shifted suddenly under him, "Yes?"

"What brings you here today? I'm assuming you didn't come for... this."

"This is nice," Gareth says, almost defensively. He nuzzles into Fenris' hand, "This is more than enough reason to come see you."

"But...?"

Right. Business.

He lets out a deep breath, "Aveline wanted me to come talk to you. The Arishok summoned me."

"The Arishok?" Fenris frowns, "Do you know why?"

"No, only that he summoned me by name."

"Be careful, Gareth," Fenris warns, eyes intense. His markings flare bright blue for a moment. "You are walking in dangerous territory here." "I know. But I have you to protect me, don't I?"

"Always."

 

 

 

 

When he goes to find Varric at the Hanged Man, Gareth still feels as though he’s walking on clouds.

Fenris kissed him. They’re going to try something new. Neither of them know what they’re doing and the thought of that is both exhilarating and terrifying all at once. All he can do is hope and pray that this works out, because he wants it more than anything.

He must still be smiling like an idiot or the truth is written all over his face, because Isabela stops him right as he enters the tavern.

"Alright, stop right there." She lays a hand in the centre of Gareth's chest. "You're going to tell me _everything_."

"I – what?"

Looping her arms around one of his, Isabela drags him over to a nearby table, "Stay here. I'll grab us drinks. Because I want details, Hawke. Varric and I have been betting on this for _years_."

"You two have been betting on – are you serious?" Gareth stares at her, mouth hanging open.

Isabela is quick to return with two tankards of the Hanged Man's best ale. She slips into the seat across from Gareth and slides a tankard across to him; she's still grinning like the cat that ate the canary. "Of course we've been betting, Hawke. It's been obvious since I met you that you were carrying the biggest torch imaginable for our prickly elven friend. Now spill, I want the details."

"I'm not..." Gareth sighs and stares into his tankard, wondering whether or not it would be possible to drown himself in it. "It was just a kiss."

"Oh, so you did kiss? Was it good?"

"... very." He swirls the ale around, feeling his cheeks heat up. "I... I hadn't thought it would feel so nice."

Isabela nearly chokes on her ale, "Wait. Hold on there for a moment. You _have_ kissed someone before Fenris, haven't you?"

"Well, yes. But I haven't–"

He stops himself there. That is far too much information to divulge. His face goes hot and he ducks his head, staring intently at the grain of the table and the multiple stains that dot its surface.

It sounds very much as though Isabela's choking on air.

"You – you haven't...? You mean, you've never _been_ with a man before or you haven't had sex at all?" Isabela's eyes are wide, her eyebrows nearly up to the bottom of her bandana, and she leans across the table towards him, as though she can't believe she's asking these questions. Then, in a quiet, soft voice, she asks, "Hawke, be honest with me: are you untouched?"

He's still staring at the table and finds himself too embarrassed to even meet Isabela's eyes. So, rather, he nods his head, his ears burning.

"Oh."

That's all Isabela says after a _very_ long pause.

"Well, I hadn't... that certainly wasn't what I expected to hear," Isabela says, finally.

Her hand on his causes Gareth to start, but when he looks at her, she's smiling softly. It's a look he's only seen when she's speaking with Merrill and it's strange to have it directed at him. But she squeezes his hand comfortingly.

"Listen Hawke, if you've got any questions or concerns about anything at all, you come to me, alright?"

He nods, feeling oddly stupid. Turning his hand over, he squeezes her hand back, "Thank you, Isabela. You're a good friend."

"Never thought anyone would say that about me, but you're welcome." There's a touch of pink high in her cheeks and her smile's turned a little sheepish, but then it becomes one he's much more familiar with. "Now, will I have to have a conversation with Fenris that involves the sharp ends of my daggers?"

"Maker, no!"

"Oh good. I don't think I'm much cut out for the role of defender of virtue. T'would be ironic that, I think."

If he could scowl, Gareth is certain he would. "I don't need anyone to defend my 'virtue' or anything like that."

"No, that's true. You're quite capable of looking after yourself. But that's... that's what friends do, isn't it? Look out for each other?"

"Yeah, that's what they do."

Isabela grins, "Good. Then you'd better drink that ale, because I spent some good coin on it!"

The ale at the Hanged Man is only marginally better than what he vaguely recalls from Dane's in Lothering. Even its best ale, which is what Isabela has purchased, doesn't _really_ compare to what's served in the taverns in Hightown, but Gareth's found that the atmosphere and company is much better here than up there.

Isabela's still grinning, a flush to her cheeks that Gareth's certain isn't entirely from the alcohol. "Y'know, I would've thought that Fenris would have had an issue with the whole apostate-mage-thing."

"We haven't really talked about it," Gareth admits. "But it has come up."

"At least you two are talking, that's more than I can say about the majority of my liaisons." She takes a long drink from her own tankard, wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. "But that's neither here nor there. What brought you to the Hanged Man today?"

"Varric," Gareth replies. "I'm to meet with the Arishok."

"Oh." Isabela's face is unreadable, "Good luck with that."

"Something wrong, Isabela? You know you can talk to me."

Isabela glances away, then back to Gareth, and leans in conspiratorially, "Alright. You remember that relic I told you about? The one that I need to find? Well, I've been following a lead. I'm so close, I can almost taste it!"

His eyebrows go up, "Isn't that what you said last time?"

"You mean when I went digging for that stash?" And Isabela has the _gall_ to look surprised.

"Yes," Gareth answers slowly. "That turned out to contain several badly written poems _and_ an old boot?"

She shrugs, "It _could've_ contained the relic."

"So you've said. Repeatedly."

"Yes, well." She waves her hand dismissively. "It's not important. What _is_ important is that I'll be taking you up on that offer of help sooner rather than later."

"You can count on me, Isabela. I'm always here if you need me."

"There you go again, being bloody sweet and noble. But don't worry, if I learn anything new, you'll be the first one I tell."

"Hawke!"

Varric's voice is distinctive, even over the rumble of conversation that always permeates the Hanged Man. He's got a grin on his face as he makes his way over to their table.

"Knew I recognized that voice of yours," Varric says, hopping up onto one of the empty stools beside Gareth. "What brings you down to the Hanged Man today?" He grins at Isabela, "Visiting Rivaini, are you? Plotting something dastardly, are we? Wait, this _is_ Hawke we're talking about. So, rescuing orphans from a burning building, are we?"

Isabela snorts into her tankard, "Not unless there's good coin involved."

"Don't be ridiculous, Varric," Gareth chides lightly. "I came looking for you, actually. But you haven't been peddling more of those stories of yours, have you? Because I heard recently that I took on an entire division of the Coterie and came out victorious."

"Let me just say, you are an _excellent_ source of such stories, Hawke," Varric replies, settling in with his hands steepled on the table. "The dashing heroics are all yours. I simply... embellish them a little. For the masses, you understand."

"But I'm never alone; you make it sound like I do everything single-handedly!"

Varric shrugs, "It's more exciting that way. But I doubt you came to hear my latest tale. So, what brought you to Lowtown today? Visiting old friends?"

"The Arishok summoned me."

"He did, huh?" Varric leans back in his chair. "You're going to go places, I know that much, Hawke."

"I'd like it if you came with me to see what he wants. Aveline and Fenris are to meet us at the compound, if you're willing."

"Count me in," Varric says easily. "I need some new material anyway."

"I think I'll sit this one out," Isabela says, finishing off her drink. "You may be content to play the hero and meddle in city politics, but that's not for me." She points a finger at Gareth, "But you remember what I said: You need advice, you come to me."

"Got it."

Varric watches Isabela leave their table, before turning to Gareth, a huge grin splitting his face, "Advice, huh? You finally make a move with Fenris, Hawke?"

"That – why is everyone so interested in Fenris and I?"

"You're our friend, Hawke. You're the entire reason any of us know each other," Varric replies easily. "I wouldn't have expected you to go for Broody – Blondie seemed more your type. But then, I think that's destined to end tragically; just the storyteller in me, I suppose. Now spill."

Gareth sighs, "It's... we've just agreed to see where things go. Nothing more."

But there's a gleam in Varric's eyes that Gareth knows means he scents a story. He leans in, "Alright, you're going to fill me in on all the juicy details while we go to meet the Arishok. Inquiring minds have to know."

"So you can spin more stories about me?"

"You're the talk of Lowtown, Hawke. And everyone knows that I know you. I have to keep the juicy gossip flowing or I'd be out of a job."

"Please leave Fenris and I out of it. _Please_."

"Alright, alright. I'll keep your love life to myself. Mostly. But you know people are gonna be whispering about it anyway." Varric hops down from the chair as Gareth pushes away, "And since you're obviously so keen to change the topic, any idea why the Arishok wants to talk to you?"

"No idea. The viscount simply said that he summoned me. The Qunari have been quiet these past few years, so I don't know what could have happened now, after all this time."

"The city's just been going mad around him, is all." Varric huffs out a breath, "Don't know if you've noticed, but things have been... getting more tense as of late. Something has to give sooner or later. And I'd put good coin on that being the Arishok."

"You're not wrong, Varric."

"Rarely am."

 

 

 

 

Both Aveline and Fenris are waiting for them at the gate to the Qunari compound.

Aveline's face is in a pinched line and Fenris looks... rather sheepish. Gareth feels his stomach tense. How quickly has word spread about the two of them? The last thing he needs is Fenris being frightened off because Aveline fancies herself his keeper.

But Fenris perks up when he sees Gareth, even smiling just a little, and Gareth's mouth tugs up in response. The tension bleeds out of him. Everything's going to be alright. They're fine.

"Well," Aveline says. "Let's find out what the Arishok wants."

They're allowed entrance to the compound, though Gareth can feel the weight of countless eyes upon them. The Arishok is, as always, sitting court upon his bench, looking as immoveable, unscrutable, and intimidating as always.

"Serah Hawke." His voice is deep, the syllables sharp.

"Messere," Gareth returns the greeting with a slight nod of his head.

"Last we met, I did not know your name. Did not care to. You have changed your fortunes over the years. The Qunari have not." He stares at Gareth, his gaze weighty. He simply says, "I offer a courtesy, Hawke. Someone has stolen what he thinks is the formula for gaatlok. You will want to hunt him."

Gaatlok. It takes a moment for the word to click in his memory. The explosive powder the Qunari are so renowned for.

"I hardly see how you would let him get away with that."

"The stolen formula was a decoy," the Arishok replies. "Saar-qamek – a poison gas, not explosives. A small amount is dangerous to your kind. But if made in quantity, perhaps by someone willing to sell it..."

"Javaris."

"Would he be cautious, or would he assume success and make enough to threaten a district? A courtesy, Hawke. You will want to hunt him."

He tilts his head to Varric, "Any idea where we can find him?"

"I heard about a sell-off," Varric says with a shrug. "Merchant territories and such. They don't do that unless someone left in a hurry. I'd have figured he rooked some noble. He's sure not a burglar."

"Where would we find him?"

"Don't look at me, I haven't kept up on the squirt. Ask the Coterie."

"Panahedan, Hawke," the Arishok interrupts them. "I do not hope you die."

It's as good a dismissal that they're going to get. And with the danger of poisonous gas hanging over their heads, they hurry from the compound.

"Looks like we're headed to Darktown."

"We'll need Anders," Aveline says. "If there's poison gas involved, then I would rather have two healers than just one."

 

 

 

 

Before they enter Anders’ clinic, Aveline catches Gareth’s arm to hold him back. Her voice is low, so as not to be overheard by the others, “Are you certain about this, Gareth?”

“About what?” Gareth blinks, confused.

Aveline rolls her eyes, “ _Fenris_.”

“Really, Aveline, you–”

“I worry about you, Gareth,” she says. “We’re… after everything that we’ve been through, we’re a family. And I look out for mine. So, I’ll ask again: Are you certain about Fenris?”

He lays a hand over hers and gives it a squeeze, along with a reassuring smile, “I’m certain.”

With a nod of her head, Aveline drops her hand and follows Gareth into the clinic.

The clinic is, for once, blessedly empty. Unlike Gareth and his family, the lot of many of Ferelden’s refugees hasn’t changed much over the years, leaving his and Anders’ talents in rather high demand. Although, the influx of them has stopped with the ending of the Blight, and Gareth has even heard talk that a number have made the move to return to their homeland.

Anders is sitting on the edge of a cot, book in hand, when they come in. He sets it aside and rises when he sees them, dusting himself off as he rises. “Hawke! How have you been?”

He smiles and, for once, it feels genuine and natural to do so, “I’m fine. How have things been here? Any more raids?”

“Templars, yes,” Anders responds. “They were practically on my doorstep the other night.”

His stomach nearly drops out, “Were they after you? Us?”

“Not me specifically,” Anders responds, running a hand through his hair. “Just another sweep through the refugees. But it’s not as though we keep this place a secret; it’s only a matter of time until they find it.” He sighs, “You know what they say about good deeds…”

“I’m well-aware,” Gareth says. He drops his voice, “And how are thing with… Justice? I can’t imagine that Meredith’s recent crackdowns have made it easy – for either of you.”

Anders snorts, his tone turning bitter, “Absolutely _love_ what she’s done with the place. The midnight raids on mages’ families. Everyone I know, forced into hiding so that they won’t be made Tranquil. I can’t say that it hasn’t been a relief to know that you, at least, are safer in Hightown.”

“And Justice?”

“It’s been… difficult, to say the least,” Anders admits, slowly. “In the Fade, there is no ‘time’. Emotion rules everything. Justice doesn’t know how to sit idle till the moment comes to strike. And… I can’t say that I have any greater patience. I… I fear what my anger has done to my friend.”

“I know. But you have to make this work, Anders.”

“I _am_ trying,” Anders stresses the word, sounding irritated. This has long been a topic of strain between them. “I haven’t attacked the templars openly and I’ve helped the mages here as best I can. But this impasse? It cannot last. One day, everyone in Kirkwall will have to choose a side.”

“And it will come.” Though, Gareth hopes, not within his lifetime, “But for now, we must do all we can to keep the peace and help those that we are able to.”

“You’re right, of course,” Anders says. “But… I find myself impatient for that day to come. Don’t you ever get tired of having to live in hiding? Of living in fear?”

“It’s all I’ve ever known,” Gareth replies softly. “Living openly as an apostate… the very thought of it terrifies me. I wouldn’t know what to do. The only life I’ve ever known is one of fear and hiding.”

“But you’re _free_. You can do with your life what you will. We’ve lived two very different lives, Hawke, and I cannot say that I don’t envy you yours. All who have lived in the Circle dream of a life like yours.”

To that, Gareth can’t think of a response. It’s always been this way with Anders; he romanticizes the life that Gareth’s led, never knowing the fear that comes with each day, of knowing that his family will bear the brunt of the punishment for keeping him. Of knowing that, should he make just _one_ slip, that he would be torn from everything and everyone he has ever known and loved, and made Tranquil.

Tranquility terrifies him more than anything. His father spoke of it with fear in his voice – and Malcolm Hawke had been the bravest man that Gareth ever knew – and instilled that same fear in his son.

_“Should you be sent to the Circle, only a life of Tranquility awaits you. You must be careful, Gareth. Always watch yourself. Always be aware. Never forget that you are a mage.”_

He swallows down the lump of terror that’s become lodged in his throat and bites his lip, then takes a deep breath to steady himself before he changes the subject entirely.

“I met with the Arishok earlier,” he begins. “And it looks like that dwarf we dealt with some years ago – Javaris – has stolen what he thinks is the formula for gaatlok. In actuality, it was poison gas. We need to find him, and we need you with us.”

Anders’ brow furrows, and he casts a look behind Gareth, to where Aveline, Fenris, and Varric wait for them at the entrance to the clinic. Though it’s subtle, Gareth sees hows Anders’ eyes linger on Fenris and the way that they narrow when they do.

“Are you sure that’s wise? I think it’s _obvious_ that Fenris and I–”

“Aveline believes that we’ll need another healer,” Gareth responds. “And I would feel better having you at my back, as well.”

Anders’ mouth clicks closed and he nods, “Just one moment, then. I’ll grab my staff and we can be off. Though, what you see in him, I will never understand, Hawke.”

Biting his lip, Gareth doesn’t respond to the jibe, and instead nods, going to wait with the others. It doesn’t take long for Anders to join them, and then they leave the clinic; with Anders dimming the lanterns and locking the doors before they do. He resets his wards, as well, which Gareth reinforces – having been taught to do so by Merrill.

“Where do you suggest we start looking, Varric?” Gareth asks, as they wander through the maze of tunnels and caverns that make up Kirkwall’s Darktown.

“I don’t think we’ll have to go far,” Varric replies. “You’ll be able to hear the Coterie before we hit them; they’ll be keen on making their due, after all.”

And, true to his word, they hear the Coterie barker before they see them.

“Turn up your purses, Kirkwall!” A woman calls out. “The leases of Javaris Tintop are up for grabs!”

The woman’s stance is casual, but there’s a long dagger at her side and a wariness in her eyes as she regards their little group when they come to stop in front of her.

“You’re selling the assets of Javaris Tintop?”

“We are,” she replies, with a nod of the head. “Limited districts, limited contracts. Keeps territory clear and separate from the start. He had a meagre lot, but he’s skipped with dues outstanding, so up it goes.”

“There’s a lot riding on finding him. Can you help?”

Her gaze turns sharp, as does her voice, “The members of our little _fellowship_ expect privacy.” But then she grins and jerks her head towards yet another tunnel to their left, “But he skipped out on paying me, too. Javaris left in a hurry; I’d put him at Smuggler’s Cut, if he’s avoiding patrols. Empties at a cave just outside town.”

“Thank you.”

“Tell him this for me: ‘Don’t come back’.”

Varric lets out a low whistle, “Not the trail I’d expect from a master thief.”

“We’ll need to hurry,” Gareth says. “He has quite the head start.”

“Smuggler’s Cut’s this way,” Anders says, leading them down the tunnel the barker indicated. “Hope you don’t mind the smell of fresh sewage…”

Smuggler’s Cut, really, is just a hole in the floor of the tunnel, covered by a rudimentary trapdoor, that leads into the maze of Kirkwall’s massive sewer system – a still functioning remnant of the Tevinter occupation.

Aveline drops into the hope first, followed by Anders and then Varric. Fenris goes next, with Gareth bringing up the rear and closing the door behind him. When he hits the ground, one of his ankles rolls a little on the rough footing, but Fenris catches him.

“Careful,” he warns. But there’s a smile in his eyes, “I won’t help you with the clean-up if you fall in.”

Gareth laughs, “I wouldn’t blame you.”

Clearing his throat loudly, Anders gives them both a pointed look. Gareth looks away a little sheepishly, but Fenris’ hand tightens its grip for a moment before he drops his grip on Gareth’s forearm. Rather, he does so, then promptly takes Gareth’s hand in his own.

It’s a little shocking, and Gareth wants to say something on it, because the gesture is so obviously possessive, but he decides he’d rather float on the thought that _Fenris_ is feeling possessive of _him_ for the time being.

“Strange,” Aveline remarks as they make their way through the dank, smelly passage. “I would’ve expected some resistance.”

“Now, don’t go saying that, Aveline,” Varric says. “You’re just asking for trouble now.”

“Not everything is like it is in your stories. But if he really did steal the gaatlok, I would have thought he would have hired men to slow down pursuers. He can’t have expected to get away so easily.”

“Aveline has a point,” Gareth says. “This is too easy.”

“Your funeral, Hawke.”

But Aveline is right. From the moment that the enter the passage, they face no resistance – not even a token force. Rather, the passage is completely empty; the only sounds those of their own echoing footsteps, the steady drip of water, and the rush of the sewer to their right.

It makes the entire trip feel much longer, time stretching on until they finally emerge out into the light in a small cove, just outside of Kirkwall’s city walls.

“What?! Shit, get them!”

Aveline draws her blade and readies her shield, “Well, I suppose here is our ‘resistance’.”

It’s a short, brutal fight.

The men that Javaris hired are no match for Fenris and Aveline, much less prepared for the magic that Anders and Hawke wield. Two fall to sword blades, another to one of Anders’ fireballs, and the last takes a spirit bolt to the chest, which is quickly followed by a bolt from Varric’s crossbow.

Behind the corpses of the armed guards, and some convenient rocks, cowers Javaris. When he spots Gareth, the blood drains from his face and he stumbles backwards, landing on his rear.

Sighing, Gareth approaches Javaris slowly, as one would a skittish cat, “Calm yourself, Javaris. You’re not dead.”

“Yet,” Fenris adds.

“She _would_ hire you. I can’t buy a break on a discount!” Javaris mutters. His shoulders sag, “You know what? Go ahead. Take my head and pike it back to that sodding elf! I need the rest.”

Gareth blinks, “Elf? What elf?”

“You… you don’t know? Then, what, you’re tracking for the Qunari?” He shakes his head, looks to the ground, “Then she did it, that elf got them after me for nothing! Bitch-born!”

“The obvious thief was perhaps too obvious,” Anders remarks.

Throwing up his hands, Javaris _finally_ explains, “Look, I’m mind my own business, same old, when, out of the blue, some elf tries to kill me. Says she’s got the Qunari powder and I’m her cover. I slipped her, hired some guards, and ran for it. And now you’re here. Great.”

“If you’re innocent, you could plead your case to the Arishok.”

“Leeeet’s break this down: An elf with explosives wants me dead; part two, the Qunari may think I’m a thief and also want me dead. Either option seem promising? Didn’t think so.” Javaris shrugs, then adds, “Look here, you want to drag the dark into light, I had a man follow her. The elf’s in Lowtown. I just want to get out. With my dead guards. Thanks for that.”

Gareth pinches the bridge of his nose, then steps aside and says, “Better luck wherever you’re bound, Javaris. The farther, the better.”

“Right…”

“Are you sure that was wise, Gareth?” Aveline asks.

“It’s too obvious that he’s not responsible,” Gareth replies. “The question now is: Why would an elf steal the gaatlok from the Qunari?”

 

 

 

 

They make their way back to Kirkwall, making use of the same passage that they took to reach Smuggler’s Cut. Then, now that it’s getting late into the afternoon, they make their way towards Lowtown, where they find one of Aveline’s very panicked guardsmen standing guard at the barricaded entrance to one of the many alleys that make up the maze of Lowtown.

Aveline stops him with a hand on his shoulder, “What’s going on, Maecon?”

“Guard-captain! There’s…! I can’t even describe…”

“On your time, son,” Aveline says gently.

He nods his head, takes several deep breaths, then snaps to attention, “Reports of some haze with the stench of rust and… and throw-up. There was a cloud, then a... lingering mist. Anyone caught up in the cloud just went mad. Then the others just wretched themselves dead.”

“Alright, keep to your post. We’ll take it from here,” Aveline says. She turns to Gareth, “He’s a good man. Trust that it’s as good as he says.”

“Let’s hope that elf didn’t make too much of the powder.”

Entering the alley, there’s a lingering, deep green mist that lies to the ground. It clings to their feet and legs, smoky tendrils that curl and part around them as they make their way through the winding street. The entire street stinks of vomit, a few of the unlucky populace to have been caught up in the initial explosion lie along the edges of the street, many of them face down in their own sick.

“This is…”

And Gareth has to swallow back the bile burning the back of his own throat. It’s different than the Blight, but no less awful.

Fenris holds a hand up, halting them all in their path. His ears twitch, just a little, “Hold. We’re not alone.”

The footfalls echo in the silence of the alley. Quiet at first, but they gradually grow louder until a small group of individuals becomes visible in the haze of dust and smoke that clings to the alley. All of them halt when they catch sight of Gareth and his friends.

“Easy,” Gareth says, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “We’re just trying to figure out what happened. Find any survivors. Are any of you–”

“You’re – Serah Hawke?”

She’s slight, like all elves, but her build is slimmer and smaller than Merrill’s – seemingly at odds with the sword buckled to her hip and the obvious wear of the armour she bears. She stares at Gareth, eyes wide, before they narrow and she jabs a finger in his direction.

“You have enemies.” She looks at the corpses which line the sides of the alley, “I’m glad it’s you, really. These poor people… you’re a much better target!”

He blinks, “ _You_ stole the formula? Why?”

Her hands ball into fists at her side, “Qunari take my people! My siblings forget their culture, then go to the Qun for purpose. We’re losing them twice!” If she were a mage, Gareth wouldn’t be surprised for sparks to fly from her gaze as she regards him, “So, I get some help from _your_ people. We’ll take the Qunari thunder, make some accidents, and make them hated!”

Behind her, her fellows shift uncomfortably, and it’s in an instant that Gareth realizes that all of them are elves. Each armed and armoured in makeshift, secondhand gear. Their leader regards the bodies, her voice going distant, “But this… this is all wrong...”

Despite Fenris’ hand resting on the hilt of his greatsword and the angle of his body to protect Gareth, should any of them make a move, Gareth steps a little to the side of him. He keeps his eyes on their leader, and says, “There’s still time to make this right. Which of ‘my people’ put you up to the theft?”

“It can still work!” Her head shoots up and there’s fire in her eyes. “They are hidden in your city. They’ll enrage the faithful, and make sure the Qunari are blamed!” She shrugs, draws her blade, “Me? I’m finished. I just need a few more bodies. A few more!”

She lunges at Gareth, blade drawn and aiming for his gut.

Gareth finds himself shoved off balance, Fenris having pushed him out of the way of the blade, but catches himself before he can hit the ground. He withdraws his stave, parries a blow from another of the fanatic elves, spinning around to launch a spirit bolt at another.

In the close, narrow quarters of the alley, it’s an awkward, but brutal fight. Fenris can’t fully unsheath his greatsword, but that doesn’t slow him down. He lunges forward, markings bright and blazing in the dark of the alley, and sinks a hand into the lead fanatic’s chest. Pulling it back, there’s a spray of blood and he casually discards her heart to the side before spinning around and kicking another in the chest.

Just behind him, Anders lights up the alley in a little light show of his own. Flames licking at the corpses and ice shards shooting through the air like daggers.

Aveline is a brick wall, shield up and holding off two of their attackers until Fenris or Gareth can finish them off.

It doesn’t last long. There were few of them to begin with and, all too soon, each of the elven fanatics lie dead at their feet.

Gareth feels nauseous, sick to his stomach, and as though there are iron bars around his heart. All he can think is _it didn’t have to end like this_.

“We should report to the Arishok and viscount,” Aveline says, regarding the bodies with an almost cool indifference. And Gareth remembers that she was a soldier before she was a guard; she must have become long inured to death. But then she turns to Gareth and adds softly, “I’ll see that their bodies are returned to their families for proper services.”

He manages a weak smile, “Thank you.”

Fenris lays a hand on his shoulder, gives it a squeeze, and Gareth lays his over it, clinging to the touch and the comfort it brings.

 

 

 

 

 

Everyone is very quiet as they make their way down to the docks and the Qunari compound.

“So,” the Arishok intones. “I was wrong about our thief.”

Gareth swallows down his bitterness, “It appears so.”

“They say we were careless with our trap, that this is our fault. But even without the saar-qamek, there would have been death. This elf was determined to lay blame at our feet.”

Gareth says nothing, simply regards the Arishok silently.

Their dismissal comes soon enough, “You may go. Take your report to your fool of a viscount, Serah Hawke.”

Outside of the compound, Fenris regards him almost warily, then ventures softly, “Are you alright, Gareth?”

“It didn’t have to end this way.”

“You can’t right all the wrongs in the world, Gareth,” Aveline says softly. “As the Arishok said, those elves were determined to lay blame at the Qunari’s feet. There was nothing you could have done or said to convince them otherwise.”

He lets out a heaving breath, “I know, but…”

Catching his face between his hands, Fenris tips his head so that Gareth looks at him, “You did the right thing, Gareth. You did all you could. And that is what matters.”

Closing his eyes, Gareth leans into the touch, “... thank you.”

For a while, they just stand like that, until Aveline clears her throat and says, “Well, I have a report to fill out and a mess to clean up. Gareth, I trust that you can inform the viscount of what’s transpired?”

“Of course.”

Fenris regards him for a moment, before he drops his hands, but there’s a hesitancy to it. “Do you need me to come with you?”

“No, I’ll be fine.” He offers Fenris a small smile, “Will you come over for dinner?”

“I – yes.”

Gareth smiles, “Thank you.”

 

 

 

 

The sun is already falling behind the towering buildings of Hightown, when Gareth arrives at the Keep. He and Aveline part ways, her to the barracks, and he continuing onwards to meet with the viscount to deliver his report on the Qunari.

Bran is, as always, present, and though he gives Gareth a sharp look, he lets him pass without comment.

Knocking at the door to the viscount’s office, Gareth enters when he hears the viscount call out, “Enter!”

He steps inside, closing the door behind him, “Judging by your expression, I trust that you’ve heard the news.”

“Years of nice, quiet anxiety… gone. Along with an entire street,” Dumar pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a heavy sigh.

“The Qunari were blameless,” Gareth says.

“Right,” Dumar chuckles mirthlessly. “A mad elf, pushed by zealots, likely hidden in the very groups I must appease. The Maker has a grand sense of humour. But, at least the matter is dealt with – regrettably so. And despite your efforts, tensions have yet risen.”

“There’s still a chance to keep the piece, Your Grace. Keep the worst of the aggressors off his back, and the Arishok will be fine.”

“Easier said than done, I’m afraid.” Dumar stares at his desk, “But at least the city and I have you, Serah Hawke. I will count that among the Maker’s blessings. Thank you for seeing to this.”

“Of course.”

Leaving the viscount’s office, Gareth is making his way down the staircase towards the exit when he spots someone rather furtively hiding behind one of the large columns that decorate the hall. He changes his path, making his way towards them, and is able to place the face in his memory.

“Saemus, wasn’t it? You’re the viscount’s son.”

Saemus blinks and looks rather embarrassed at being caught, “Yes, Serah Hawke. I – I apologize. I did not mean to eavesdrop, but the tension between the city and the Qunari… I find it all rather concerning.”

“I think that many feel the same.”

“Yes, well… their existence should not be considered a threat, no matter how they challenge the Chantry.”

Gareth raises his eyebrows, “Well, they’re difficult to deal with, I will say, but so are many others. I may disagree with their beliefs, but I certainly wouldn’t raise my weapon against them unless given good reason to.”

“Then you’ve already treated them with more grace than most,” Saemus says, smiling. “It’s a shame, really. Given that… some of their ideas are so _compelling_.”

“Was there something that you required of me, Saemus?”

“Oh, no more than to inquire after your meeting with my father. I trust things are in order, Serah Hawke?”

“As much as they ever will be, I fear.”

“Then I will not keep you any longer.”

Gareth watches him go, unable to shake the niggling feeling that Saemus’ interest in the Qunari and their ideas will not go without incident. But he tucks that to the side, for now, it’s none of his concern. He has other things on his mind. Such as dinner with his mother and Fenris.

He makes it home before Fenris arrives for dinner, to find his mother waiting for him.

“I heard that there had been trouble,” she says. “You’re not hurt?”

Gareth smiles and nods his head, “I’m fine, Mother, you needn’t worry about me.”

“I’m your mother; it’s my job to worry about you.” She looks him over with a sharp eye, then smiles broadly, “Ah, but you’re walking lighter now. Has something good happened? You have the look of a man happily in love.”

Gareth flushes, ducks his head, “I – well yes.”

“Oh, Gareth, I’m so happy for you! I’ve been watching you and Fenris for quite some time now – the way you two dance around each other. It’s rather sweet. But you’re finally making it official, then?”

“Mother, we’re not getting married. We only… we’ve only agreed to see where things will go.”

“I know you, Gareth. You’re my son. I’d be a pretty terrible mother if I couldn’t tell that you’re in love with him. You can admit it to me; I’ll do my best not to make a fool out of you.”

“I’m not worried about that, Mother,” Gareth admits. “But… neither of us really know what we’re doing.”

“Then I’ll try to guide you both, as best I can,” Leandra says simply. “Affairs of the heart are never simple, but I had your father and it was more than enough. I hope that Fenris makes you as happy as your father made me.”

“He agreed to come for dinner tonight,” Gareth says. “Please, don’t interrogate him. I’m afraid that Aveline has already quizzed him about his… intentions.”

Leandra laughs, looping her arm through Gareth’s as she leads him towards the dining room, “Well, if Aveline has already given her blessing, then I certainly won’t stand in your way. Not that I could, you are a grown man, after all, and perfectly capable of making your own decisions.”

“I’m… surprised that you’re taking this so well.”

“It’s been years, Gareth, and I’ve watched you grow. You never paid much mind to the young ladies in Lothering that were so smitten with you. But I’ve seen how Fenris looks at you, the way that he always guards your back. I’m not so old that I’ve forgotten what it it is to be in love. I only want what’s best for you, Gareth. You deserve to be happy.”

 

 

 

 

It’s late in the evening, bordering on night, when Gareth makes his way to the Chantry. Though not terribly religious himself, it’s become a routine for him and, for once, he’s feeling lighter than he has in months.

At such a late hour, the Chantry is largely empty. There’s a few worshippers scattered about, and some of the brothers and sister are also about, fulfilling their duties and tending to the candles and offerings brought by worshipers. None of them pay Gareth mind, used to the late night comings and goings of both people and himself.

He’s making his way up the stairs, when he hears heated voices. Both of which he recognizes.

“I thought it would end here. Young master Hawke destroyed Flint Company. Yet… now that I know who sent them, it’s more difficult to see their death’s as the justice I sought.”

“Death is _never_ justice.”

“I–”

Gareth clears his throat as he crests the top of the stairs, “Am I interrupting something?”

For his part, Sebastian looks embarrassed to have been caught speaking behind Gareth’s back, “No, we were… just speaking of you.”

Elthina smiles when she sees Gareth, “The people of Kirkwall speak very well of you, Serah Hawke.” She casts a look at Sebastian, “Perhaps I can trust you to guide Sebastian in his hour of need, for he certainly won’t heed my words.”

With that, Elthina leaves the two of them alone.

“You have my apologies, Hawke,” Sebastian says, at long last. “It wasn’t my intention for you to become involved in my... personal affairs.”

“There’s no need to apologize, Sebastian,” Gareth says, smiling at him reassuringly. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“I would like to think so.” Sebastian sighs, “Still, I hadn’t wanted to get you involved with this and I do apologize for that. Was there something that you wanted to speak to me of?”

“Sebastian, what happened with the Grand Cleric?”

“It was–” He stops when Gareth gives him a sharp look, “Very well. I found out who it was that hired the Flint Company to assassinate my family. It… it was the Harimanns – a noble family here in Kirkwall. They… they were some of my family’s closest friends and allies.”

Gareth frowns, “And… they just turned on your family? There must have been a reason.”

“Not one that I can think of. I… I want to confront them, find out _why_ they didwhat they did. But… I’m the last of my line. I cannot go alone.”

“What if I go with you?”

Sebastian shakes his head, “I cannot ask you to do so, Hawke. It would put you in danger and I have involved you in this enough.”

“You’ve listened to me enough nights to know me well enough, Sebastian. I’m offering because we’re friends. I want to help you find the answers you need. You won’t have closure unless you do so.”

“I – thank you, Hawke. Your interest in my plight humbles me, truly.” Sebastian hesitates, then adds, “Until we confront her, consider myself and my bow at your service, Hawke. Should you have need of me, you need only ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -rolls in with a new chapter and a new act- And we finally get to my Fucking With The Shit. Also, Sebastian. Have I mentioned that I love Sebastian? Because I do. And the more that I write of him, the more that I love writing him. He's just... I love him, alright. Hopefully, I won't take as long with the next chapter, but I can make no promises. Hopefully, this tides all of you over until then.


End file.
